PWy^:?2 PE9PLE5 THEATRE 




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LAWRENCE 




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^ Flays for a People s Theater, IL 



Touch and Go 



Touch and Go 

A Play in Three Acts 



By 
D. H. LAWRENCE 




New York 

THOMAS SELTZER 

1920 



^ 



1^ 



/ 






Copyright, 1920, 
By Thomas Seltzer, Inc. 

The dramatic agent for this play is 

Mr. Walter Peacock, 20 Green St., 

Leicester Square, London. 



Printed in the United States of America 
All Rights Reserved 



JUL 12 1920 ^ 
>C;.[j 5 5051 ^'^ 






PREFACE 

A NICE phrase : ' ' A People 's Theatre. ' ' But what about 
it? There's no such thing in existence as a People's 
Theatre : or even on the way to existence, as far as we can 
tell. The name is chosen, the baby isn't even begotten: 
nay, the would-be parents aren't married, nor yet court- 
ing. 

A People's Theatre. Note the indefinite article. It 
isn't The People's Theatre, but A People's Theatre. Not 
The people: il popolo, le peuple, das Volk, this monster 
is the same the world over: Plebs, the proletariat. Not 
the theatre of Plebs, the proletariat, but the theatre of 
A People. What people? Quel peuple done? — A 
People's Theatre. Translate it into French for yourself. 

A People's Theatre. Since we can't produce it, let us 
deduce it. Major premiss: the seats are cheap. Minor 
premiss: the plays are good. Conclusion: A People's 
Theatre. How much will you give me for my syllogism? 
Not a slap in the eye, I hope. 

We stick to our guns. The seats are cheap. That 
has a nasty proletarian look about it. But appearances 
are deceptive. The proletariat isn 't poor. Everybody is 
poor except Capital and Labour. Between these upper 
and nether millstones great numbers of decent people 
are squeezed. 

The seat are cheap : in decency 's name. Nobody 

5 



6 TOUCH AND GO 

wants to swank, to sit in the front of a box like a gera- 
nium on a window-sill — "the cynosure of many eyes." 
Nobody wants to profiteer. We all feel that it is as hu- 
miliating to pay high prices as to charge them. No man 
consents in his heart to pay high prices unless he feels 
that what he pays with his right hand he will get back 
with his left, either out of the pocket of a man who isn 't 
looking, or out of the envy of the poor neighbour who 
is looking, but can't afford the figure. The seats are 
cheap. Why should A People, fabulous and lofty giraffe, 
want to charge or to pay high prices'? If it were tJie 
people now. — But it isn't. It isn't Plebs, the prolet- 
ariat. The seats are cheap. 

The plays are good. Pah! — this has a canting smell. 
Any play is good to the man who likes to look at it. 
And at that rate Chu Chin Chow is extra-super-good. 
What about your good plays? Whose good? Pfui to 
your goodness! 

That minor premiss is a bad egg: it will hatch no 
bird. Good plays? You might as well say mimsy 
bomtittle plays, you'd be saying as much. The plays 
are — don't say good or you'll be beaten. The plays — 
the plays of A People's Theatre are — oh heaven, what 
are they? — not popular nor populous nor plebian nor 
proletarian nor folk nor parish plays. None of that 
adjectival spawn. 

The only clue-word is People's for all that. A 
People's Chaste word, it will bring forth no adjec- 
tive. The plays of A People's Theatre are People's 
plays. The plays of A People 's Theatre are plays about 
people. 

It doesn 't look much, at first sight. After all — people ! 



TOUCH AND GO 7 

Yes, people! Not tlie people, i.e. Plebs, nor yet the 
Upper Ten. People. Neither Piecoli nor Grand! in 
our republic. People. 

People, ah God ! Not mannequins. Not lords nor pro- 
letariats nor bishops nor husbands nor co-respondents 
nor virgins nor adultresses nor uncles nor noses. Not 
even white rabbits nor presidents. People. 

Men who are somebody, not men who are something. 
Men who happen to be bishops or co-respondents, women 
who happen to be chaste, just as they happen to freckle, 
because it's one of their innumerable odd qualities. 
Even men who happen, by the way, to have long noses. 
But not noses on two legs, not burly pairs of gaiters, 
stuffed and voluble, not white meringues of chastity, 
not incarnations of co-respondence. Not proletariats, 
petitioners, presidents, noses, bits of fluff. Heavens, 
what an assortment of bits! And aren't we sick of 
them! 

People, I say. And after all, it's saying something. 
It's harder to be a human being than to be a president 
or a bit of fluff. You can be a president, or a bit of 
fluff, or even a nose, by clockwork. Given a role, a 
part, you can play it by clockwork. But you can't have 
a clockAvork human being. 

"We're dead sick of parts. It's no use your protesting 
that there is a man behind the nose. We can't see him, 
and he can't see himself. Nothing but nose. Neither 
can you make us believe there is a man inside the gaiters. 
He's never showed his head yet. 

It may be, in real life, the gaiters wear the man, as 
the nose wears Cyrano. It may be Sir Auckland Geddes 
and Mr. J. H. Thomas are only clippings from the illus- 



8 TOUCH AND GO 

trated press. It may be that a miner is a complicated 
machine for cutting coal and voting on a ballot-paper. 
It may be that coal-owners are like the petit bleu ar- 
rangement, a system of vacuum tubes for whooshing 
Bradburys about from one to the other. 

It may be that everybody delights in bits, in parts, 
that the public insists on noses, gaiters, white rabbits, 
bits of fluff, automata and gewgaws. If they do, then 
let 'em. Chu Chin Chow for ever! 

In spite of them all : A People 's Theatre, A People 's 
Theatre shows men, and not parts. Not bits, nor bun- 
dles of bits. A whole bunch of roles tied into one won't 
make an individual. Though gaiters perish, we will 
have men. 

Although most miners may be piek-cum-shovel-cum- 
ballot implements, and no more, still, among miners there 
must be two or three living individuals. The same 
among the masters. The majority are suction-tubes for 
Bradburys. But in this Sodom of Industrialism there 
are surely ten men, all told. My poor little withered 
grain of mustard seed, I am half afraid to take you 
across to the seed-testing department ! 

And if there are men, there is A'People's Theatre. 

How many tragic situations did Goethe say were 
possible? Something like thirty-two. Which seems a 
lot. Anyhow, granted that men are men still, that not 
all of them are bits, parts, machine-sections, then we 
have added another tragic possibility to the list: the 
Strike situation. As yet no one tackles this situation. 
It is a sort of Medusa head, which turns — no, not to 
stone, but to sloppy treacle. Mr. Galsworthy had a peep, 
and sank down towards bathos. 



TOUCH AND GO 9 

Granted that men are still men, Labour v. Capitalism 
is a tragic struggle. If men are no more than imple- 
ments, it is non-tragic and merely disastrous. In tragedy 
the man is more than his part. Hamlet is more than 
Prince of Denmark, Macbeth is more than murderer of 
Duncan. The man is caught in the wheels of his part, 
his fate, he may be torn asunder. He may be killed, 
but the resistant, integral soul in him is not destroyed. 
He comes through, though he dies. He goes through 
with his fate, though death swallows him. And it is in 
this facing of fate, this going right through with it, 
that tragedy lies. Tragedy is not disaster. It is a dis- 
aster when a cart-wheel goes over a frog, but it is not 
a tragedy. Tragedy is the working out of some im- 
mediate passional problem within the soul of man. If 
this passional problem and this working out be absent, 
then no disaster is a tragedy, not the hugest; not the 
death of ten million men. It is only a cartwheel going 
over a frog. There must be a supreme struggle. 

In Shakespeare's time it was the people versus king 
storm that was brewing. Majesty was about to have 
its head off. Come what might, Hamlet and Macbeth 
and Goneril and Regan had to see the business through. 

NoAv a new wind is getting up. "We call it Labour 
versus Capitalism. We say it is a mere material strug- 
gle, a money-grabbing affair. But this is only one as- 
pect of it. In so far as men are merely mechanical, 
the struggle is one which, though it may bring disaster 
and death to millions, is no more than accident, an acci- 
dental collision of forces. But in so far as men are men, 
the situation is tragic. It is not really the bone we are 
fighting for. We are fighting to have somebody's head 



10 TOUCH AND GO 

off. The conflict is in pure, passional antagonism, turn- 
ing upon the poles of belief. Majesty was only Jiors 
d'cpvres to this tragic repast. 

So, the strike situation has this dual aspect. First 
it is a mechanico-material struggle, two mechanical forces 
pulling asunder from the central object, the bone. All 
it can result in is the pulling asunder of the fabric of 
civilisation, and even of life, without any creative issue. 
It is no more than a frog under a cart-wheel. The me- 
chanical forces, rolling on, roll over the body of life 
and squash it. 

The second is the tragic aspect. According to this 
view, we see more than two dogs fighting for a bone, 
and life hopping under the Juggernaut wheel. The two 
dogs are making the bone a pretext for a fight with each 
other. That old bull-dog, the British capitalist, has 
got the bone in his teeth. That unsatisfied mongrel, 
Plebs, the proletariat, shivers with rage not so much at 
sight of the bone, as at sight of the great wrinkled jowl 
that holds it. There is the old dog, with his knowing 
look and his massive grip on the bone: and there is 
the insatiable mongrel, with his great splay paws. The 
one is all head and arrogance, the other all paws and 
grudge. The bone is only the pretext. A first condition 
of the being of Bully is that he shall hate the prowling 
great paws of Plebs, whilst Plebs by inherent nature 
goes mad at the sight of Bully 's jowl. * ' Drop it ! " cries 
Plebs. * ' Hands off ! " growls Bully. It is hands against 
head, the shambling, servile body in a rage of insurrec- 
tion at last against the wrinkled, heavy head. 

Labour not only wants his debt. He wants his pound 
of flesh. It is a quandary. In our heart of hearts we 



TOUCH AND GO 11 

must admit the debt. We must admit that it is long 
overdue. But this last condition! In vain we study 
our anatomy to see which part we can best spare. 

Where is our Portia, to save us with a timely quibble ? 
We've plenty of Portias. They've recited their heads 
off — "The quality of mercy is not strained." But the 
old Shylock of the proletariat persists. He pops up 
again, and says, ''All right, I can't have my pound of 
flesh with the blood. But then you can't keep my pound 
of flesh with your blood — you owe it to me. It is your 
business to deliver the goods. Deliver it then — with or 
without blood — deliver it." Then Portia scratches her 
head, and thinks again. 

What's the solution? There is no solution. But still 
there is a choice. There's a choice between a mess and 
a tragedy. If Plebs and Bully hang on one to each 
end of the bone, and pull for grim life, they will at last 
tear the bone to atoms: in short, destroy the whole 
material substance of life, and so perish by accident, no 
better than a frog under the wheel of destiny. That 
may be a disaster, but it is only a mess for all that. 

On the other hand, if they have a flght to fight they 
might really drop the bone. Instead of wrangling the 
bone to bits they might really go straight for one 
another. They are like hostile parties on board a ship, 
who both proceed to scuttle the ship so as to sink the 
other party. Down goes the ship, with all the bally lot 
on board. A few survivors swim and squeal among the 
bubbles — and then silence. 

It is too much to suppose that the combatants will 
ever drop the obvious old bone. But it is not too much 
to imagine that some men might acknowledge the bone 



12 TOUCH AND GO 

to be merely a pretext, another hollow casus helli. If 
we really could know what we were fighting for, if we 
could deeply believe in what we were fighting for, then 
the struggle might have dignity, beauty, satisfaction for 
us. If it were a profound struggle for something that 
was coming to life in us, a struggle that we were con- 
vinced would bring us to a new freedom, a new life, 
then it would be a creative activity, a creative activity 
in which death is a climax in the progression towards 
ncAV being. And this is tragedy. 

Therefore, if we could but comprehend or feel the 
tragedy in the great Labour struggle, the intrinsic 
tragedy of having to pass through death to birth, our 
souls would still know some happiness, the very happi- 
ness of creative suffering. Instead of which we pile 
accident on accident, we tear the fabric of our existence 
fibre by fibre, we confidently look forward to the time 
when the whole great structure will come down on our 
heads. Yet after all that, when we are squirming under 
the debris, we shall have no more faith or hope or satis- 
faction than we have now. We shall crawl from under 
one cart-wheel straight under another. 

The essence of tragedy, which is creative crisis, is that 
a man should go through with his fate, and not dodge 
it and go bumping into an accident. And the whole 
business of life, at the great critical periods of mankind, 
is that men should accept and be one with their tragedy. 
Therefore we should open our hearts. For one thing 
we should have a People's Theatre. Perhaps it would 
help us in this hour of confusion better than anything. 

Hermitage, 
June, 1919. 



CHARACTERS 

Gerald Barlow. 
Mr. Barlow (his father). 
Oliver Turton. 
Job Arthur Freer. 
Willie Houghton, 
Alfred Breffitt. 
William {a butler). 
Clerks, Miners, etc. 
Anabel Wrath. 
Mrs. Barlow. 
Winifred Barlow. 
Eva {a maid). 



Touch and Go 

ACT I 

Scene I 

Sunday morning. Market-place of a large mining vil- 
lage in tJie Midlands. A man addressing a small 
gang of colliers from the foot of a stumpy memorial 
obelisk. Church hells heard. Church-goers passing 
along the outer pavements. 
Willie Houghton. What's the matter with you 
folks, as I've told you before, and as I shall keep on 
telling you every now and again, though it doesn't 
make a bit of difference, is that you've got no idea of 
freedom whatsoever. I 've lived in this blessed place for 
fifty years, and I've never seen the spark of an idea, 
nor of any response to an idea, come out of a single one 
of you, all the time. I don't know what it is with 
colliers — whether it's spending so much time in the 
bowels of the earth — but they never seem to be able 
to get their thoughts above their bellies. If you've 
got plenty to eat and drink, and a bit over to keep 
the missis quiet, you're satisfied. I never saw such a 
satisfied bloomin' lot in my life as you Barlow & Wal- 
sall's men are, really. Of course you can growse aa 
well as anybody, and you do growse. But you don't 
do anything else. You're stuck in a sort of mud of 
contentment, and you feel yourselves sinking, but you 
make no efforts to get out. You bleat a bit, like sheep 

15 



16 TOUCH AND GO 

in a bog — but you like it, you know. You like sink- 
ing in — you don't have to stand on your own feet 
then. 

I'll tell you what '11 happen to you chaps. I'll give 
you a little picture of what you'll be like in the future. 
Barlow & Walsall's '11 make a number of compounds, 
such as they keep niggers in in South Africa, and there 
you'll be kept. And every one of you'll have a little 
brass collar round his neck, with a number on it. You 
won't have names any more. And you'll go from the 
compound to the pit, and from the pit back again to 
the compound. You won't be allowed to go outside 
the gates, except at week-ends. They'll let you go 
home to your wives on Saturday nights, to stop over 
Sunday. But you'll have to be in again by half -past 
nine on Sunday night; and if you're late, you'll have 
your next week-end knocked off. And there you'll be 
— and you'll be quite happy. They'll give you plenty 
to eat, and a can of beer a day, and a bit of bacca — 
and they'll provide dominoes and skittles for you to 
play with. And you'll be the most contented set of 
men alive. — But you won't be men. You won't even 
be animals. You'll go from number one to number 
three thousand, a lot of numbered slaves — a new sort 
of slaves 

Voice. An' wheer shall thee be, Willie? 

Willie. Oh, I shall be outside the palings, laughing 
at you. I shall have to laugh, because it '11 be your own 
faults. You'll have nobody but yourself to thank for 
it. You don't want to be men. You'd rather not be 
free — much rather. You're like those people spoken 
of in Shakespeare: "Oh, how eager these men are to be 



TOUCH AND GO 17 

slaves!" I believe it's Shakespeare — or the Bible — 
one or the other — it mostly is 

Anabel Wrath (she was passing to church). It was 
Tiberius. 

Willie. Eh? 

Anabel. Tiberius said it. 

Willie. Tiberius!— Oh, did he? (Laughs.) Thanks! 
Well, if Tiberius said it, there must be something in it. 
And he only just missed being in the Bible anyway. 
He was a day late, or they'd have had him in. "Oh, 
how eager these men are to be slaves!" — If^s evident 
the Romans deserved all they got from Tiberius — and 
you'll deserve all you get, every bit of it. But don't 
you bother, you'll get it. You won't be at the mercy 
of Tiberius, you'll be at the mercy of something a jolly 
sight worse. Tiberius took the skin off a few Romans, 
apparently. But you'll have the soul taken out of you 
— every one of you. And I'd rather lose my skin than 
my soul, any day. But perhaps you wouldn't. 

Voice. What art makin' for, Willie? Tha seems 
to say a lot, but tha goes round it. Tha'rt like a donkey 
on a gin. Tha gets ravelled. 

Willie. Yes, that's just it. I am precisely like a 
donkey on a gin — a donkey that's trying to wind a 
lot of colliers up to the surface. There 's many a donkey 
that's brought more colliers than you up to see day- 
light, by trotting round. — But do you want to know 
what I'm making for? I can soon tell you that. You 
Barlow & Walsall 's men, you haven 't a soul to call your 
your own. Barlow & Walsall's have only to say to 
one of you, Come, and he cometh, Go, and he goeth, Lie 



18 TOUCH AND GO 

down and be kicked, and he lieth down and he is kicked 
— and serve him jolly well right. 

Voice. Ay — an' what about it? Tha's got a behind 
o' thy own, hasn't ter? 

Willie. Do yon stand there and ask me what about 
it, and haven't the sense to alter it? Couldn't you set 
up a proper Government to-morrow, if you liked? 
Couldn't you contrive that the pits belonged to you, 
instead of you belonging to the pits, like so many old 
pit-ponies that stop down till they are blind, and take 
to eating coal-slack for meadow-grass, not knowing 
the difference ? If only you 'd learn to think, I 'd respect 
you. As you are, I can't, not if I try my hardest. All 
you can think of is to ask for another shilling a day. 
That's as far as your imagination carries you. And 
perhaps you get sevenpence ha'penny, but pay for it 
with half-a-crown 's worth of sweat. The masters aren't 
fools — as you are. They'll give you two- thirds of what 
you ask for, but they'll get five-thirds of it back again — 
and they'll get it out of your flesh and blood, too, in 
jolly hard work. Shylock wasn't in it with them. He 
only wanted a pound of flesh. But you cheerfully give 
up a pound a week, each one of you, and keep on giving 
it up. — But you don't seem to see these things. You 
can't think beyond your dinners and your 'lowance. 
You think if you can get another shilling a day you're 
set up. You make me tired, I tell you. 

Job Akthur Freer. We think of others besides our- 
selves. 

Willie. Hello, Job Arthur — are you there ? I didn 't 
recognise you without your frock-coat and silk hat — on 
the Sabbath. — What was that you said? You think of 



TOUCH AND GO 19 

Bomething else, besides yourselves? — Oh ay — I'm glad to 
hear it. Did you mean your own importance ? 

(A motor car, Gerald Barlow driving, Oliver Turton 
vnth him, has pulled up.) 

Job Arthur (glancing at the car). No, I didn't. 

Willie. Didn't you, though ?— Come, speak up, let 
us have it. The more the merrier. You were going to 
say something. 

Job Arthur. Nay, you were doing the talking. 

Willie. Yes, so I was, till you interrupted, with a 
great idea on the tip of your tongue. Come, spit it out. 
No matter if Mr. Barlow hears you. You know how 
sorry for you we feel, that you've always got to make 
your speeches twice— once to those above, and once to 
us here below. I didn't mean the angels and the devils, 
but never mind. Speak up, Job Arthur. 

Job Arthur. It's not everybody as has as much to 
say as you, Mr. Houghton. 

Willie. No, not in the open— that's a fact. Some 
folks says a great deal more, in semi-private. You were 
just going to explain to me, on behalf of the men, whom 

you so ably represent and so wisely lead. Job Arthur 

we won't say by the nose— you were just going to tell 
me— on behalf of the men, of course, not of the masters 
— that you think of others, besides yourself. Do you 
mind explaining what others? 

Job Arthur. Everybody's used to your talk, Mr. 
Houghton, and for that reason it doesn't make much 
impression. What I meant to say, in plain words, was 



20 TOUCH AND GO 

that we have to think of what's best for everybody, not 
only for ourselves. 

Willie. Oh, I see. What's best for everybody! I 
see! Well, for myself, I'm much obliged — there's noth- 
ing for us to do, gentlemen, but for all of us to bow ac- 
knowledgments to Mr. Job Arthur Freer, who so kindly 
has all our interests at heart. 

Job Arthur. I don 't profess to be a red-rag Socialist. 
I don't pretend to think that if the Government had the 
pits it would be any better for us. No. What I mean 
is, that the pits are there, and every man on this place 
depends on them, one way or another. They're the cow 
that gives the milk. And what I mean is, how every 
man shall have a proper share of the milk, which is food 
and living. I don't want to kill the cow and share up 
the meat. It 's like killing the goose that laid the golden 
egg. I want to keep the cow healthy and strong. And 
the cow is the pits, and we're the men that depend on 
the pits. 

Willie. Who 's the cat that 's going to lick the cream ? 

Job Arthur. My position is this — and I state it be- 
fore masters and men — that it's our business to strike 
such a balance between the interests of the men and the 
interests of the masters that the pits remain healthy, 
and everybody profits. 

Willie. You're out for the millennium, I can see — 
with Mr. Job Arthur Freer striking the balance. We all 
see you. Job Arthur, one foot on either side of the fence, 
balancing the see-saw, with masters at one end and men 
at the other. You'll have to give one side a lot of pud- 
ding. — But go back a bit, to where we were before the 
motor car took your breath away. When you said, Job 



TOUCH AND GO 21 

Arthur, that you think of others besides yourself, didn't 
you mean, as a matter of fact, the office men? Didn't 
you mean that the colliers, led — we won't mention noses 
— by you, were going to come out in sympathy with the 
office clerks, supposing they didn 't get the rise in wages 
which they've asked for — the office clerks? Wasn't 
that it? 

Job Arthur. There's been some talk among the 
men of standing by the office. I don 't know what they '11 
do. But they'll do it of their own decision, whatever 
it is. 

Willie. There's not a shadow of doubt about it. Job 
Arthur. But it's a funny thing the decisions all have 
the same foxy smell about them, Job Arthur. 

Oliver Turton (calling from tlie car). What was 
the speech about, in the first place? 

Willie. I beg pardon? 

Oliver. What was the address about, to begin with? 

Willie. Oh, the same old hat — Freedom. But partly 
it's given to annoy the Unco Guid, as they pass to their 
Sabbath banquet of self-complacency. 

Oliver. What about Freedom? 

Willie. Very much as usual, I believe. But you 
should have been here ten minutes sooner, before we 
began to read the lessons. (Lauglis.) 

Anabel W. (moving forward, and Jiolding out Tier 
hand). You'd merely have been told what Freedom 
isn^t : and you know that already. How are you, Oliver? 

Oliver. Good God, Anabel! — are you part of the 
meeting? How long have you been back in England? 

Anabel. Some months, now. My family have moved 
here, you know. 



22 TOUCH AND GO 

Oliver. Your family! Where have they moved 
from? — from the moon? 

Anabel. No, only from Derby. — How are you, 
Gerald? 

C Gerald twists in Ms seat to give Jier his Jiand.) 

Gerald. I saw you before. 
Anabel. Yes, I know you did. 

('Job Arthur has disappeared. The men disperse sheep- 
ishly into groups, to stand and sit on their heels 
hy the walls and the causeway edge. Willie 
Houghton begins to talk to individuals.) 

Oliver. Won't you get in and drive on with us a 
little way? 

Anabel. No, I was going to church. 

Oliver. Going to church ! Is that a new habit ? 

Anabel. Not a habit. But I've been twice since I 
saw you last. 

Oliver. I see. And that's nearly two years ago. 
It's an annual thing, like a birthday? 

Anabel. No. I'll go on, then. 

Oliver. You'll be late now. 

Anabel. Shall I? It doesn't matter. 

Oliver. We are going to see you again, aren't we? 

Anabel (after a pause). Yes, I hope so, Oliver. 

Oliver. How have you been these two years — well? 
—happy ? 

Anabel. No, neither. How have you? 

Oliver. Yes, fairly happy. Have you been ill? 

Anabel. Yes, in France I was very ill. 



TOUCH AND GO 23 

Oliver. Your old neuritis? 

Anabel. No. My chest. Pneumonia — oh, a compli- 
cation. 

Oliver. How sickening ! Who looked after you ? Is 
it better? 

Anabel. Yes, it's a great deal better. 

Oliver. And what are you doing in England — 
working ? 

Anabel. No, not much. — I won't keep the car here: 
good-bye. 

Gerald. Oh, it 's all right. 

Oliver. But, Anabel — we must fix a meeting. I say, 
wait just a moment. Could I call on your people? Go 
into town with me one day. I don't know whether 
Gerald intends to see you — whether he intends to ask 
you to Lilley Close. 

Gerald. I 

Anabel. He's no need. I'm fixed up there already. 

Gerald. What do you mean? 

Anabel. I am at Lilley Close every day — or most 
days — to work with your sister Winifred in the studio. 

Gerald. What? — why, how's that? 

Anabel. Your father asked me. My father was al- 
ready giving her some lessons. 

Gerald. And you're at our house every day? 

Anabel. Most days. 

Gerald. Well, I'm — well, I'll be — you managed it 
very sharp, didn't you? I've only been away a fort- 
night. 

Anabel. Your father asked me — he offered me twelve 
pounds a month — I wanted to do something. 

Gerald. Oh yes, but you didn't hire yourself out at 



24 TOUCH AND GO 

Lilley Close as a sort of upper servant just for twelve 
pounds a month. 

Anabel. You're wrong — you're wrong. I'm not a 
sort of upper servant at all — not at all. 

Gerald. Oh, yes, you are, if you're paid twelve 
pounds a month — three pounds a week. That's about 
what father's sick-nurse gets, I believe. You're a kind 
of upper servant, like a nurse. You don't do it for 
twelve pounds a month. You can make twelve pounds 
in a day, if you like to work at your little models: I 
know you can sell your statuette things as soon as you 
make them. 

Anabel. But 1 can't make them. I can't make them. 
I've lost the spirit — the joie de vivre — I don't know 
what, since I've been ill. I tell you I've got to earn 
something. 

Gerald. Nevertheless, you won't make me believe, 
Anabel, that you've come and buried yourself in the 
provinces — such provinces — just to earn father's three 
pounds a week. Why don't you admit it, that you came 
back to try and take up the old threads? 

Oliver. Why not, Gerald? Don't you think we 
ought to take up the old threads? 

Gerald. I don't think we ought to be left without 
choice. I don't think Anabel ought to come back and 
thrust herself on me — for that's what it amounts to, 
after all — when one remembers what's gone before. 

Anabel, I don't thrust myself on you at all. I 
know I 'm a fool, a fool, to come back. But I wanted to. 
I wanted to see you again. Now I know I 've presumed, 
I've made myself clieap to you. I wanted to — I wanted 
to. And now I've done it, I won't come to Lilley Close 



TOUCH AND GO 25 

again, nor anywhere where you are. Tell your father 
I have gone to France again — it will be true. 

Gerald. You play tricks on me — and on yourself. 
You know you do. You do it for the pure enjoyment 
of it. You 're making a scene here in this filthy market- 
place, just for the fun of it. You like to see these 
accursed colliers standing eyeing you, and squatting on 
their heels. You like to catch me out, here where I'm 
known, where I've been the object of their eyes since 
I was born. This is a great coup de main for you. I 
knew it the moment I saw you here. 

Oliver. After all, we are making a scene in the 
market-place. Get in, Anabel, and we'll settle the dis- 
pute more privately. I'm glad you came back, anyhow. 
I'm glad you came right down on us. Get in, and let 
us run down to Whatmore. 

Anabel. No, Oliver. I don't want to run down to 
Whatmore. I wanted to see you — I wanted to see 
Gerald — and I've seen him — and I've heard him. That 
will suffice me. We'll make an end of the scene in the 
market-place. (Slie turns away.) 

Oli\ter. I knew it wasn't ended. I knew she would 
come back and tell us she'd come. But she's done her 
bit — now she'll go again. My God, what a fool of a 
world! — You go on, Gerald — I'll just go after her and 
see it out. (Colls. J One moment, Anabel. 

Anabel (calling). Don't come, Oliver. (Turns.) 

Gerald. Anabel ! (Blows the horn of the motor car 
violently and agitatedly — she looks round — turns again 
as if frightened.) God damn the woman! (Gets down 
from the car.) Drive home for me, Oliver. 

(Curtai7i.) 



26 TOUCH AND GO 

Scene II 

Winifred's studio at Lilley Close. Anabel and 
Winifred working at a model in clay. 

Winifred. But isn't it lovely to be in Paris, and 
to have exhibitions, and to be famous? 

Anabel. Paris was a good place. But I was never 
famous. 

Winifred. But your little animals and birds were 
famous. Jack said so. You know he brought us that 
bronze thrush that is singing, that is in his room. He 
has only let me see it twice. It's the loveliest thing I've 
ever seen. Oh, if I can do anything like that! — I've 
worshipped it, I have. It is your best thing? 

Anabel. One of the best. 

Winifred. It must be. When I see it, with its beak 
lifted, singing, something comes loose in my heart, and 
I feel as if I should cry, and fly up to heaven. Do you 
know what I mean ? Oh, I 'm sure you do, or you could 
never have made that thrush. Father is so glad you've 
come to show me how to work. He says now I shall 
have a life-work, and I shall be happy. It's true, too. 

Anabel. Yes, till the life-work collapses. 

Winifred. Oh, it can't collapse. I can't believe it 
could collapse. Do tell me about something else you 
made, which you loved — something you sculpted. Oh, 
it makes my heart burn to hear you! — Do you think 
I might call you Anabel? I should love to. You do 
call me Winifred already. 



TOUCH AND GO 27 

Anabel. Yes, do. 

Winifred. Won't you tell me about something else 
you made — something lovely? 

Anabel.. Well, I did a small kitten — asleep — with 
its paws crossed. You know, Winifred, that wonderful 
look that kittens have, as if they were blown along like 
a bit of fluff — as if they weighed nothing at all, just 
wafted about — and yet so alive — do you know ? 

Winifred. Darlings — darlings — I love them! 

Anabel. Well, my kitten really came off — it had that 
quality. It looked as if it had just wafted there. 

Winifred. Oh, yes! — oh, I know! And was it in 
clay? 

Anabel. I cut it in soft grey stone as well. I loved 
my kitten. An Armenian bought her. 

Winifred. And where is she now? 

Anabel. I don't know — in Armenia, I suppose, if 
there is such a place. It would have to be kept under 
glass, because the stone wouldn't polish — and I didn't 
want it polished. But I dislike things under glass — 
don't you? 

Winifred. Yes, I do. We had a golden clock, but 
Gerald wouldn't have the glass cover, and Daddy 
wouldn't have it without. So now the clock is in father's 
room. Gerald often went to Paris. Oliver used to have 
a studio there. I don't care much for painting — do 
you? 

Anabel. No. I want something I can touch, if it's 
something outside me. 

Winifred. Yes, isn't it wonderful, when things are 
substantial. Gerald and Oliver came back yesterday 
from Yorkshire. You know we have a colliery there. 



28 TOUCH AND GO 

Anabel. Yes, I believe I've heard. 

Winifred, I want to introduce you to Gerald, to see 
if you like him. H'e's good at the bottom, but he's very 
overbearing and definite. 

Anabel. Is he? 

Winifred. Terribly clever in business. He'll get 
awfully rich. 

Anabel. Isn't he rich enough already? 

Winifred. Oh, yes, because Daddy is rich enough, 
really. I think if Gerald was a bit different, he'd be 
really nice. Now he's so managing. It's sickening. 
Do you dislike managing people, Anabel? 

Anabel. I dislike them extremely, Winifred. 

Winifred. They're such a bore. 

Anabel, What does Gerald manage? 

Winifred. Everything. You know he's revolution- 
ised the collieries and the whole Company. He's made 
a whole new thing of it, so modern. Father says he 
almost wishes he'd let it die out — let the pits be closed. 
But I suppose things must be modernised, don't you 
think? Though it's very unpeaceful, you know, really. 

Anabel. Decidedly unpeaceful, I should say. 

Winifred. The colliers work awfully hard. The pits 
are quite wonderful now. Father says it's against na- 
ture — all this electricity and so on. Gerald adores elec- 
tricity. Isn't it curious? 

Anabel, Very. How are you getting on? 

Winifred. I don 't know. It 's so hard to make things 
balance as if they were alive. Where is the balance in a 
thing that 's alive ? 

Anabel. The poise? Yes, Winifred — to me, all the 
secret of life is in that — just the — the inexpressible poise 



TOUCH AND GO 29 

of a living thing, that makes it so different from a dead 
thing. To me it's the soul, you know — all living things 
have it — flowers, trees as well. It makes life always 
marvellous. 

Winifred. Ah, yes! — ah, yes! If only I could put 
it in my model. 

Anabel. I think you will. You are a sculptor, Wini- 
fred. — Isn't there someone there? 

Winifred (runnhig to tJie door). Oh, Oliver! 

Oliver. Hello, Winnie! Can I come in? This is 
your sanctum : you can keep us out if you like. 

Winifred. Oh, no. Do you know Miss Wrath, Oli- 
ver? She's a famous sculptress. 

Oliver. Is she? We have met. — Is Winifred going 
to make a sculptress, do you think? 

Anabel. I do. 

Oliver. Good ! I like your studio, Winnie. Awfully 
nice up here over the out-buildings. Are you happy 
in it? 

Winifred. Yes, I'm perfectly happy — only I shall 
never be able to make real models, Oliver — it's so dif- 
ficult. 

Oliver. Fine room for a party — Give us a studio 
party one day, Win, and we'll dance. 

Winifred (flying to Mm). Yes, Oliver, do let us 
dance. What shall we dance to? 

Oliver. Dance? — Dance Vigni-vignons — we all know 
that. Ready? 

Winifred. Yes. 

(TJiey begin to sing, dancing meamvhUe, in a free little 
ballet-manner, a ivine-dance, dancing separate and 
tJien together.) 



30 TOUCH AND GO 

De terre en vigne, 
La voila la jolie vigne, 
Vigni-vignons — vignons le vin, 
La voila la jolie vigne au vin, 
La voila la jolie vigne. 

Oliver. Join in — join in, all. 

(^Anabel joins in; tJie three dance and move in rJiytJim.) 
Winifred. I love it — I love it ! Do Ma capote a trois 
houtons — you know it, don't you, Anabel? Ready — 
now 

(They begin to dance to a quick little march-rhythm, 
all singing and dancing till they are out of breath.) 

Oliver. Oh! — tired! — let us sit down. 
Winifred. Oliver! — oh, Oliver! — I love you and 
Anabel. 

Oliver. Oh, Winifred, I brought you a present — 
you'll love me more now. 

Winifred. Yes, I shall. Do give it me. 
Oliver. I left it in the morning-room. I put it on 
the mantel-piece for you. 

Winifred. Shall I go for it ? 

Oliver. There it is, if you want it. 

Winifred. Yes — do you mind? I won't be long. 

(Exit.) 
Oliver. She's a nice child. 
Anabel. A very nice child. 
Oliver. Why did you come back, Anabel? 
Anabel. Why does the moon rise, Oliver? 



TOUCH AND GO 31 

Oliver. For some mischief or other, so they say. 

Anabel. You think I came back for mischief 's sake ? 

Oliver, Did you? 

Anabel. No. 

Oliver. Ah ! 

Anabel. Tell me, Oliver, how is everything now? — 
how is it with you? — how is it between us all? 

Oliver. How is it between us all? — How isn't it, is 
more the mark. 

Anabel. Why ? 

Oliver. You made a fool of us. 

Anabel. Of whom? 

Oliver. Well — of Gerald particularly — and of me, 

Anabel. How did I make a fool of you, Oliver? 

Oliver. That you know best, Anabel. 

Anabel. No, I don't know. Was it ever right be- 
tween Gerald and me, all the three years we knew each 
other — we were together? 

Oliver. Was it all wrong? 

Anabel. No, not all. But it was terrible. It was 
terrible, Oliver. You don't realise. You don't realise 
how awful passion can be, when it never resolves, when 
it never becomes anything else. It is hate, really. 

Oliver. What did you want the passion to resolve 
into? 

Anabel. I was blinded — maddened. Gerald stung 
me and stung me till I was mad. I left him for reason 's 
sake, for sanity's sake. We should have killed one an- 
other. 

Oliver. You stung him, too, you know — and pretty 
badly, at the last : you dehumanised him, 

Anabel. When? When I left him, you mean? 



32 TOUCH AND GO 

Oliver. Yes, when you went away with that Nor- 
wegian — playing your game a little too far. 

Anabel. Yes, I knew you 'd blame me. I knew you 'd 
be against me. But don't you see, Oliver, you helped to 
make it impossible for us. 

Oliver. Did I ? I didn 't intend to. 

Anabel. Ha, ha, Oliver! Your good intentions! 
They are too good to bear investigation, my friend. Ah, 
but for your good and friendly intentions 

Oliver. You might have been all right? 

Anabel. No, no, I don't mean that. But we were a 
vicious triangle, Oliver — you must admit it. 

Oliver. You mean my friendship with Gerald went 
against you? 

Anabel. Yes, And your friendship with me went 
against Gerald. 

Oliver. So I am the devil in the piece. 

Anabel. You see, Oliver, Gerald loved you far too 
well ever to love me altogether. He loved us both. But 
the Gerald that loved you so dearly, old, old friends 
as you were, and trusted you, he turned a terrible face 
of contempt on me. You don't know, Oliver, the cold 
edge of Gerald's contempt for me — because he was so 
secure and strong in his old friendship with you. You 
don't know his sneering attitude to me in the deepest 
things — because he shared the deepest things with you. 
He had a passion for me. But he loved you. 

Oliver. Well, he doesn't any more. We went apart 
after you had gone. The friendship has become almost 
casual. 

Anabel. You see how bitterly you speak. 

Oliver. Yet you didn't hate me, Anabel. 



TOUCH AND GO 33 

Anabel. No, Oliver — I was awfully fond of you. I 
trusted you — and I tinist you still. You see I knew how 
fond Gerald was of you. And I had to respect this feel- 
ing. So I liad to be aware of you : I liad to be conscious 
of you: in a way, I had to love you. You understand 
how I mean ? Not with the same fearful love with which 
I loved Gerald. You seemed to me warm and protecting 
— like a brother, you know — but a brother one loves. 

Oliver. And then you hated me? 

Anabel. Yes, I had to hate you. 

Oliver. And you hated Gerald? 

Anabel. Almost to madness — almost to madness. 

Oliver. Then you went away with that Norwegian. 
What of him? 

Anabel. What of him? Well, he's dead, 

Oliver. Ah! That's why you came back? 

Anabel. No, no. I came back because my only hope 
in life was in coming back. Baard was beautiful — and 
awful. You know how glisteningly blond he was. Oli- 
ver, have you ever watched the polar bears? He was 
cold as iron when it is so cold that it burns you. Cold- 
ness wasn't negative with him. It was positive — and 
awful beyond expression — like the aurora borealis. 

Oliver. I wonder you ever got back. 

Anabel. Yes, so do I. I feel as if I 'd fallen down a 
fissure in the ice. Yet I have come back, haven 't I ? 

Oliver. God knows! At least, Anabel, we've gone 
through too much ever to start the old game again. 
There'll be no more sticky love between us. 

Anabel. No, I think there won't, either. 

Oliver. And what of Gerald? 

Anabel. I don't know. What do you think of him? 



84 TOUCH AND GO 

Oliver. I can't think any more. I can only blindly 
go from day to day, now. 

Anabel. So can I. Do you think I was wrong to 
come back? Do you think I wrong Gerald? 

Oliver. No. I'm glad you came. But I feel I can't 
know anything. We must just go on. 

Anabel. Sometimes I feel I ought never to have 
come to Gerald again — never — never — never. 

Oliver. Just left the gap? — Perhaps, if everything 
has to come asunder. But I think, if ever there is to 
be life — hope, — then you had to come back. I always 
knew it. There is something eternal between you and 
him; and if there is to be any happiness, it depends on 
that. But perhaps there is to he no more happiness — 
for our part of the world. 

Anabel (after a pause). Yet I feel hope — don't yout 

Oliver. Yes, sometimes. 

Anabel. It seemed to me, especially that winter in 
Norway, — I can hardly express it, — as if any moment 
life might give way under one, like thin ice, and one 
would be more than dead. And then I knew my only 
hope was here — the only hope. 

Oliver. Yes, I believe it. And I believe 

(Enter Mrs. Barlow, j 

Mrs. Barlow. Oh, I wanted to speak to you, Oliver. 

Oliver. Shall I come across? 

Mrs. Barlow. No, not now. I believe father is com- 
ing here with Gerald. 

Oliver. Is he going to walk so far? 

Mrs. Barlow, He will do it. — I suppose you know 
Oliver? 



TOUCH AND GO 35 

Anabel. Yes, we have met before. 

Mrs. Barlow (to Oliver J. You didn't mention it. 
Where have you met Miss Wrath? She's been about 
the world, I believe. 

Anabel. About the world? — no, Mrs. Barlow. If one 
happens to know Paris and London 

Mrs. Barlow. Paris and London! Well, I don't say 
you are altogether an adventuress. My husband seems 
very pleased with you — for Winifred's sake, I suppose 
— and he's wrapped up in Winifred. 

Anabel. Winifred is an artist. 

Mrs. Barlow. All my children have the artist in 
them. They get it from my family. My father went 
mad in Rome. My family is born with a black fate — 
they all inherit it. 

Oliver. I believe one is master of one's fate some- 
times, Mrs. Barlow. There are moments of pure choice. 

Mrs. Barlow. Between two ways to the same end, 
no doubt. There's no changing the end. 

Oliver. I think there is. 

Mrs. Barlow. Yes, you have a parvenu's presump- 
tuousness somewhere about you. 

Oliver. Well, better than a blue-blooded fatalism. 

Mrs. Barlow. The fate is in the blood: you can't 
change the blood. 

(Enter Winifred, j 

Winifred. Oh, thank you, Oliver, for the wolf and 
the goat, thank you so much ! — The wolf has sprung on 
the goat. Miss Wrath, and has her by the throat. 

Anabel. The wolf? 



36 TOUCH AND GO 

Oliver. It's a little marble group — Italian — in hard 
marble. 

Winifred. The wolf — I love the wolf — he pounces so 
beautifully. His backbone is so terribly fierce. I don't 
feel a bit sorry for the goat, somehow. 

Oliver. I didn't. She is too much like the wrong 
sort of clergyman. 

Winifred. Yes — such a stiff, long face. I wish he'd 
kill her. 

Mrs. Barlow. There's a wish! 

Winifred. Father and Gerald are coming. That's 
them, I suppose. 

(Enter Mr. Barlow and Gerald, j 

Mr. Barlow. Ah, good morning — good morning — 
quite a little gathering ! Ah 

Oliver. The steps tire you, Mr. Barlow. 

Mr. Barlow. A little — a little — thank you. — Well, 
Miss Wrath, are you quite comfortable here? 

Anabel. Very comfortable, thanks. 

Gerald. It was clever of you, father, to turn this 
place into a studio. 

Mr. Barlow. Yes, Gerald. You make the worldly 
schemes, and I the homely. Yes, it's a delightful place. 
I shall come here often if the two young ladies will 
allow me. — By the way. Miss Wrath, I don't know if 
you have been introduced to my son Gerald. I beg 
your pardon. Miss Wrath, Gerald — my son, Miss Wrath, 
(TJiey how.) Well, we are quite a gathering, quite a 
pleasant little gathering. We never expected anything 
so delightful a month ago, did we, Winifred, darling? 



TOUCH AND GO 37 

Winifred. No, daddy, it's much nicer than expec- 
tations. 

Mr. Barlow. So it is, dear — to have such exceptional 
companionship and such a pleasant retreat. We are 
very happy to have Miss Wrath with us — very happy. 

Gerald. A studio's awfully nice, you know; it is 
such a retreat. A newspaper has no effect in it — falls 
quite flat, no matter what the headlines are. 

Mr. Barlow. Quite true, Gerald, dear. It is a sanc- 
tum the world cannot invade — unlike all other sanctu- 
aries, I am afraid. 

Gerald. By the way, Oliver — to go back to pro- 
fanities — the colliers really are coming out in support 
of the poor, ill-used clerks. 

Mr. Barlow. No, no, Gerald — no, no ! Don 't be such 
an alarmist. Let us leave these subjects before the la- 
dies. No, no: the clerks will have their increase quite 
peacefully. 

Gerald. Yes, dear father — but they can't have it 
peacefully now. We've been threatened already by the 
colliers — we've already received an ultimatum. 

Mr. Barlow. Nonsense, my boy — nonsense! Don't 
let us split words. You won't go against the clerks in 
such a small matter. Always avoid trouble over small 
matters. Don't make bad feeling — don't make bad 
blood. 

Mrs. Barlow. The blood is already rotten in this 
neighbourhood. What it needs is letting out. We need 
a few veins opening, or we shall have mortification set- 
ting in. The blood is black. 

Mr. Barlow. We won't accept your figure of speech 
literally, dear. No, Gerald, don't go to war over trifles. 



38 TOUCH AND GO 

Gerald. It's just over trifles that one imist make 
war, father. One can yield gracefully over big matters. 
But to be bullied over trifles is a sign of criminal weak- 
ness. 

Mr. Barlow. Ah, not so, not so, my boy. "When you 
are as old as I am, you will know the comparative in- 
significance of these trifles. 

Gerald. The older / get, father, the more such trifles 
stick in my throat. 

Mr. Barlow. Ah, it is an increasingly irritable dis- 
position in you, my child. Nothing costs so bitterly, in 
the end, as a stubborn pride. 

Mrs. Barlow. Except a stubborn humility — and that 
will cost you more. Avoid humility, beware of stubborn 
humility : it degrades. Hark, Gerald — fight ! When the 
occasion comes, fight ! If it 's one against five thousand, 
fight! Don't give them your heart on a dish! Never! 
If they want to eat your heart out, make them fight for 
it, and then give it them poisoned at last, poisoned with 
your own blood. — ^What do you say, young woman? 

Anabel. Is it for me to speak, Mrs. Barlow? 

Mrs. Barlow. Weren't you asked? 

Anabel. Certainly I would never give the world my 
heart on a dish. But can't there ever be peace — real 
peace? 

Mrs. Barlow. No— not while there is devilish en- 
mity. 

Mr. Barlow. You are wrong, dear, you are wrong. 
The peace can come, the peace that passeth all under- 
standing. 

Mrs. Barlow. That there is already between me and 
Almighty God. I am at peace with the God that made 



TOUCH AND GO 39 

me, and made me proud. With men who humiliate me 
I am at war. Between me and the shameful humble 
there is war to the end, though they are millions and I 
am one. I hate the people. Between my race and them 
there is war — between them and me, between them and 
my children — for ever war, for ever and ever. 

Mr. Barlow. Ah, Henrietta — you have said all this 
before. 

Mrs. Barlow. And say it again. Fight, Gerald. You 
have my blood in you, thank God. Fight for it, Gerald. 
Spend it as if it were costly, Gerald, drop by drop. Let 
no dogs lap it. — Look at your father. He set his heart 
on a plate at the door, for the poorest mongrel to eat 
up. See him now, wasted and crossed out like a mis- 
take — and swear, Gerald, swear to be true to my blood 
in you. Never lie down before the mob, Gerald. Fight 
it and stab it, and die fighting. It's a lost hope — but 
fight! 

Gerald. Don't say these things here, mother. 

Mrs. Barlow. Yes, I will — I will. I'll say them be- 
fore you, and the child Winifred — she knows. And be- 
fore Oliver and the young woman — they know, too. 

Mr. Barlow. You see, dear, you can never under- 
stand that, although I am weak and wasted, although I 
may be crossed out from the world like a mistake, I still 
have peace in my soul, dear, the peace that passeth all 
understanding, 

Mrs. Barlow. And what right have you to it? All 
very well for you to take peace with you into the other 
world. What do you leave for your sons to inherit ? 

Mr. Barlow. The peace of God, Henrietta, if there 
is no peace among men. 



40 TOUCH AND GO 

Mrs. Barlow. Then why did you have children? 
Why weren't you celibate? They have to live among 
men. If they have no place among men, why have you 
put them there ? If the peace of God is no more than the 
peace of death, why are your sons born of you? How 
can you have peace with God, if you leave no peace 
for your sons — no peace, no pride, no place on 
earth? 

Gerald. Nay, mother, nay. You shall never blame 
father on my behalf. 

Mrs. Barlow. Don't trouble — he is blameless — I, a 
hulking, half-demented woman, I am glad when you 
blame me. But don 't blame me when I tell you to fight. 
Don't do that, or you will regret it when you must die. 
Ah, your father was stiff and proud enough before men 
of better rank than himself. He was overbearing enough 
with his equals and his betters. But he humbled him- 
self before the poor, he made me ashamed. He must 
hear it — he must hear it ! Better he should hear it than 
die coddling himself with peace. His humility, and my 
pride, they have made a nice ruin of each other. Yet 
he is the man I wanted to marry — he is the man I would 
marry again. But never, never again would I give 
way before his goodness. Gerald, if you must be true 
to your father, be true to me as well. Don't set me down 
at nothing because I haven't a humble case. 

Gerald. No, mother — no, dear mother. You see, dear 
mother, I have rather a job between the two halves of 
myself. When you come to have the wild horses in your 
own soul, mother, it makes it difficult. 

Mrs. Barlow. Never mind, you'll have help. 

Gerald. Thank you for the assurance, darling. — 



TOUCH AND GO 41 

Father, you don't mind what mother says, I hope. I 
believe there's some truth in it — don't you? 

Mr. Barlow. I have nothing to say. 

Winifred. / think there's some truth in it, daddy. 
You were always worrying about those horrid colliers, 
and they didn't care a bit about you. And they ought 
to have cared a million pounds. 

Mr. Barlow^. You don't understand, my child. 

(Curtain.) 



ACT II 

Scene: Evening of the same day. Drawing-room at 
Lilley Close. Mr. Barlow, Gerald, Winifred, Ana- 
BEL, Oliver present. Butler pours coffee. 

Mr, Barlow. And you are quite a stranger in these 
parts, Miss Wrath? 

Anabel. Practically. But I was born at Derby. 

Mr. Barlow. I was born in this house — but it was a 
different affair then : my father was a farmer, you know. 
The coal has brought us what moderate wealth we have. 
Of course, we were never poor or needy — farmers, sub- 
stantial farmers. And I think we were happier so — 
yes. — Winnie, dear, hand Miss Wrath the sweets. I 
hope they're good. I ordered them from London for 
you. — Oliver, my boy, have you everything you like? 
That's right. — It gives me such pleasure to see a little 
festive gathering in this room again. I wish Bertie and 
Elinor might be here. What time is it, Gerald? 

Gerald. A quarter to nine, father, 

Mr. Barlow. Not late yet. I can sit with you an- 
other half-hour. I am feeling better to-day. Winifred, 
sing something to us. 

Winifred. Something jolly, father? 

Mr. Barlow. Very Jolly, darling. 

Winifred. I'll sing ''The Lincolnshire Poacher," 
shall I ? 

42 



TOUCH AND OO 43 

Mr. Barlow. Do, darling, and we'll all join in the 
chorus. — Will you join in the chorus, Miss Wrath? 
Anabel. I will. It is a good song. 
Mr. Barlow. Yes, isn't it! 
Winifred. All dance for the chorus, as well as singing. 

(Tliey sing; some pirouette a little for the chorus.) 

Mr. Barlow. Ah, splendid! Splendid! There is 
nothing like gaiety. 

Winifred. I do love to dance about. I know : let us 
do a little ballet — four of us — oh, do ! 
Gerald. What ballet, Winifred? 
Winifred. Any. Eva can play for us. She plays 
well. 

Mr. Barlow. You won't disturb your mother? Don't 
disturb Eva if she is busy with your mother. (Exit 
Winifred.) If only I can see Winifred happy, my 
heart is at rest: if only I can hope for her to be happy 
in her life. 

Gerald. Oh, Winnie's all right, father — especially 
now she has Miss Wrath to initiate her into the mys- 
teries of life and labour. 

Anabel. Why are you ironical ? 

Mr. Barlow. Oh, Miss Wrath, believe me, we all feel 
that — it is the greatest possible pleasure to me that you 
have come. 

Gerald. I wasn't ironical, I assure you. 
LxR. Barlow. No, indeed — no, indeed ! We have every 
belief in you. 

Anabel. But why should you have? 

Mr. Barlow. Ah, my dear child, allow us the credit 



44 TOUCH AND GO 

of our own discernment. And don't take offence at my 
familiarity. I am afraid I am spoilt since I am an 
invalid. 

(Re-enter "Winifred, with Eva.^ 

Mr. Barlow. Come, Eva, you will excuse us for 
upsetting your evening. Will you be so good as to play 
something for us to dance to? 

Eva. Yes, sir. What shall I play? 

Winifred. Mozart — I '11 find you the piece. Mozart's 
the saddest musician in the world — ^but he's the best to 
dance to. 

Mr. Barlow. Why, how is it you are such a con- 
noisseur in sadness, darling? 

Gerald. She isn't. She's a flagrant amateur. 

fEvA plays; tJiey dance a little hallet.) 

Mr. Barlow. Charming — charming. Miss Wrath: — 
will you allow me to say Anabel, we shall all feel so 
much more at home? Yes — thank you — er — you enter 
into the spirit of it wonderfully, Anabel, dear. The 
others are accustomed to play together. But it is not 
so easy to come in on occasion as you do. 

Gerald. Oh, Anabel 's a genius! — I beg your pardon, 
Miss Wrath — familiarity is catching. 

Mr. Barlow. Gerald, my boy, don't forget that you 
are virtually host here. 

Eva. Did you want any more music, sir? 

Gerald. No, don't stay, Eva. We mustn't tire 
father. (Exit Eva.; 



TOUCH AND GO 45 

Mr. Barlow. I am afraid, Anabel, you will have a 
great deal to excuse in us, in the way of manners. We 
have never been a formal household. But you have 
lived in the world of artists: you will understand, I 
hope. 

Anabel. Oh, surely 

Mr. Barlow. Yes, I know. "We have been a tur- 
bulent family, and we have had our share of sorrow, 
even more, perhaps, than of joys. And sorrow makes 
one indifferent to the conventionalities of life. 

Gerald. Excuse me, father : do you mind if I go and 
write a letter I have on my conscience? 

Mr. Barlow. No, my boy. (Exit G^RAUi.) We have 
had our share of sorrow and of conflict. Miss Wrath, as 
you may have gathered. 
Anabel. Yes — a little. 

Mr. Barlow. The mines were opened when my 
father was a boy — the first — and I was born late, when 
he was nearly fifty. So that all my life has been involved 
with coal and colliers. As a young man, I was gay and 
thoughtless. But I married young, and we lost our first 
child through a terrible accident. Two children we 
have lost through sudden and violent death, f Winifred 
goes out unnoticed.) It made me reflect. And when 
I came to reflect, Anabel, I could not justify my position 
in life. If I believed in the teachings of the New Testa- 
pient — which I did, and do — how could I keep two or 
three thousand men employed and underground in the 
mines, at a wage, let us say, of two pounds a week, 
whilst I lived in this comfortable house, and took some- 
thing like two thousand pounds a year — ^let us name any 



46 TOUCH AND GO 

Anabel. Yes, of course. But is it money that really 
matters, Mr. Barlow? 

Mr. Barlow. My dear, if you are a working man, it 
matters. When I went into the homes of my poor fel- 
lows, when they were ill or had had accidents — then I 
knew it mattered. I knew that the great disparity was 
wrong — even as we are taught that it is wrong. 

Anabel. Yes, I believe that the great disparity is a 
mistake. But take their lives, Mr. Barlow. Do you 
think they would live more, if they had more money? 
Do you think the poor live less than the rich? — is 
their life emptier? 

Mr. Barlow. Surely their lives would be better, 
Anabel. 

Oliver. All our lives would be better, if we hadn't 
to hang on in the perpetual tug-of-war, like two donkeys 
pulling at one carrot. The ghastly tension of posses- 
sions, and struggling for possession, spoils life for 
everybody. 

Mr. Barlow. Yes, I know now, as I knew then, that 
it was wrong. But how to avoid the wrong? If I gave 
away the whole of my income, it would merely be an 
arbitrary dispensation of charity. The money would 
still be mine to give, and those that received it would 
probably only be weakened instead of strengthened. And 
then my wife was accustomed to a certain way of living, 
a certain establishment. Had I any right to sacrifice 
her, without her consent? 

Anabel. Why, no! 

Mr. Barlow. Again, if I withdrew from the Com- 
pany, if I retired on a small income, I knew that another 



TOUCH AND GO 47 

man would automatically take my place, and make it 
probably harder for the men. 

Anabel. Of course — while the system stands, if one 
makes self-sacrifice one only panders to the system, makes 
it fatter. 

Mr. Barlow. One panders to the system — one pan- 
ders to the system. And so, you see, the problem is too 
much. One man cannot alter or affect the system; he 
can only sacrifice himself to it. Which is the worst thing 
probably that he can do. 

Oliver. Quite. But why feel guilty for the system? 
— everybody supports it, the poor as much as the rich. 
If every rich man withdrew from the system, the work- 
ing classes and socialists would keep it going, every 
man in the hope of getting rich himself at last. It's the 
people that are wrong. They want the system much 
more than the rich do — because they are much more 
anxious to be rich — never having been rich, poor 
devils. 

Mr. Barlow. Just the system. So I decided at last 
that the best way was to give every private help that 
lay in my power. I Avould help my men individually 
and personally, wherever I could. Not one of them 
came to me and went away unheard; and there was 
no distress which could be alleviated that I did not 
try to alleviate. Yet I am afraid that the greatest dis- 
tress I never heard of, the most distressed never came 
to me. They hid their trouble. 

Anabel. Yes, the decent ones. 

Mr. Barlow. But I wished to help — it was my duty. 
Still, I think that, on the whole, we were a comfortable 
and happy community. Barlow & Walsall's men were 



48 TOUCH AND GO 

not unhappy in those days, I believe. We were liberal ; 
the men lived. 

Oliver. Yes, that is true. Even twenty years ago 
the place was still jolly. 

Mr. Barlow. And then, when Gerald was a lad of 
thirteen, came the great lock-out. We belonged to the 
Masters' Federation — I was but one man on the Board. 
We had to abide by the decision. The mines were closed 
till the men would accept the reduction. — Well, that 
cut my life across. We were shutting the men out from 
work, starving their families, in order to force them to 
accept a reduction. It may be the condition of trade 
made it imperative. But, for myself, I would rather 
have lost everything. — Of course, we did what we could. 
Food was very cheap — practically given away. We had 
open kitchen here. And it was mercifully warm sum- 
mer-time. Nevertheless, there was privation and suffer- 
ing, and trouble and bitterness. We had the redcoats 
down — even to guard this house. And from this win- 
dow I saw Whatmore head-stocks ablaze, and before I 
could get to the spot the soldiers had shot two poor 
fellows. They were not killed, thank God 

Oliver. Ah, but they enjoyed it — they enjoyed it 
immensely. I remember what grand old sporting weeks 
they were. It was like a fox-hunt, so lively and gay — 
bands and tea-parties and excitement everywhere, pit- 
ponies loose, men all over the country-side 

Mr. Barlow. There was a great deal of suffering 
which you were too young to appreciate. However, 
since that year I have had to acknowledge a new situa- 
tion — a radical if unspoken opposition between masters 
and men. Since that year we have been split into oppo- 



TOUCH AND GO 49 

site camps. "Whatever I might privately feel, I was 
one of the owners, one of the masters, and therefore in 
the opposite camp. To my men I was an oppressor, a 
representative of injustice and greed. Privately, I like 
to think that even to this day they bear me no malice, 
that they have some lingering regard for me. But the 
master stands before the human being, and the condition 
of war overrides individuals — they hate the master, even 
whilst, as a human being, he would be their friend. I 
recognise the inevitable justice. It is the price one has 
to pay. 

Anabel. Yes, it is difficult — very. 

Mr. Barlow. Perhaps I weary you ? 

Anabel. Oh, no — no. 

Mr. Barlow. Well — then the mines began to pay 
badly. The seams ran thin and unprofitable, work was 
short. Either we must close down or introduce a new 
system, American methods, which I dislike so extremely. 
Now it really became a case of men working against 
machines, flesh and blood working against iron, for a 
livelihood. Still, it had to be done — the whole system 
revolutionised. Gerald took it in hand — and now I 
hardly know my own pits, with the great electric plants 
and strange machinery, and the new coal-cutters — iron 
men, as the colliers call them — everything running at 
top speed, utterly dehumanised, inhuman. Well, it had 
to be done; it was the only alternative to closing down 
and throwing three thousand men out of work. And 
Gerald has done it. But I can't bear to see it. The men 
of this generation are not like my men. They are worn 
and gloomy; they have a hollow look that I can't bear 
to see. They are a great grief to me. I remember my 



50 TOUCH AND GO 

men even twenty years ago — a noisy, lively, careless set, 
who kept the place ringing. Now it is too quiet — too 
quiet. There is something wrong in the quietness, some- 
thing unnatural. I feel it is unnatural ; I feel afraid of 
it. And I cannot help feeling guilty. 

Anabel. Yes — I understand. It terrifies me. 

Mr. Barlow. Does it? — does it? — Yes. — And as my 
wife says, I leave it all to Gerald — ^this terrible situation. 
But I appeal to God, if anything in my power could 
have averted it, I would have averted it. I would have 
made any sacrifice. For it is a great and bitter trouble 
to me. 

Anabel. Ah, well, in death there is no industrial sit- 
uation. Something must be different there. 

Mr. Barlovvt. Yes — yes. 

Oliver. And you see sacrifice isn't the slightest use. 
If only people would be sane and decent. 

Mr. Barlow. Yes, indeed. — Would you be so good 
as to ring, Oliver? I think I must go to bed. 

Anabel. Ah, you have over-tired yourself. 

Mr. Barlow. No, my dear — not over-tired. Excuse 
me if I have burdened you with all this. It relieves me 
to speak of it. 

Anabel. I realise how terrible it is, Mr. Barlow — 
and how helpless one is. 

Mr. Barlow. Thank you, my dear, for your sym- 
pathy. 

Oliver. If the people for one minute pulled them- 
selves up and conquered their mania for m.oney and 
machine excitement, the whole thing would be solved. — 
Would you like me to find Winnie and tell her to say 
good night to you? 



TOUCH AND GO 51 

Mr. Barlow. If you would be so kind. (Exit Oli- 
ver, j Can't you find a sweet that you would like, my 
dear? Won't you take a little cherry brandy? 

(Enter Butler. J 

Anabel. Thank you. 

"William. You will go up, sir? 

Mr. Barlow. Yes, William. 

William. You are tired to-night, sir. 

Mr. Barlow. It has come over me just now. 

William. I wish you went up before you became so 
over-tired, sir. Would you like nurse? 

Mr. Barlow. No, I'll go with you, William. Good- 
night, my dear. 

Anabel. Good night, Mr. Barlow. I am so sorry if 
you are over-tired. 

(Exit Butler and Mr. Barlow. Anabel takes a 
drink and goes to tJie fire.) 

(Enter Gerald, j 

Gerald. Father gone up? 

Anabel. Yes. 

Gerald. I thought I heard him. Has he been talk- 
ing too much? — Poor father, he will take things to 
heart. 

Anabel. Tragic, really. 

Gerald. Yes, I suppose it is. But one can get be- 
yond tragedy — ^beyond the state of feeling tragical, I 
mean. Father himself is tragical. One feels he is mis- 
taken — and yet he wouldn't be any different, and be 



52 TOUCH AND GO 

himself, I suppose. He's sort of crucified on an idea of 
the working people. It's rather horrible when he's one's 
father, — However, apart from tragedy, how do you like 
being here, in this house? 

Anabel. I like the house. It's rather too comfort- 
able. 

Gerald. Yes. But how do you like being here? 

Anabel. How do you like my being in your home ? 

Gerald. Oh, I think you're very decorative. 

Anabel. More decorative than comfortable? 

Gerald. Perhaps. But perhaps you give the neces- 
sary finish to the establishment. 

Anabel. Like the correct window-curtains? 

Gerald. Yes, something like that. I say, why did 
you come, Anabel? Why did you come slap-bang into 
the middle of us? — It's not expostulation — I want to 
know. 

Anabel. You mean you want to be told? 

Gerald. Yes, I want to be told. 

Anabel. That's rather mean of you. You should 
savvy, and let it go without saying. 

Gerald. Yes, but I don't savvy. 

Anabel. Then wait till you do. 

Gerald. No, I want to be told. There's a difference 
in you, Anabel, that puts me out, rather. You're sort of 
softer and sweeter — I 'm not sure whether it isn 't a touch 
of father in you. There's a little sanctified smudge on 
your face. Are you really a bit sanctified? 

Anabel. No, not sanctified. It's true I feel differ- 
ent. I feel I want a new way of life — something more 
dignified, more religious, if you like — anyhow, something 
positive. 



TOUCH AND GO 53 

Gerald. Is it the change of heart, Anabel ? 

Anabel. Perhaps it is, Gerald. 

Gerald. I'm not sure that I like it. Isn't it like a 
berry that decides to get very sweet, and goes soft? 

Anabel. I don't think so. 

Gerald. Slightly sanctimonious. I think I liked you 
better before. I don't think I like you with this touch 
of aureole. People seem to me so horribly self-satisfied 
when they get a change of heart — they take such a 
fearful lot of credit to themselves on the strength of it. 

Anabel. I don't think I do. — Do you feel no differ- 
ent, Gerald? 

Gerald. Radically, I can't say I do. I feel very 
much more ^different. 

Anabel. What to? 

Gerald. Everything. 

Anabel. You're still angry — that's what it is. 

Gerald. Oh, yes, I 'm angry. But that is part of my 
normal state. 

Anabel. Why are you angry? 

Gerald. Is there any reason why I shouldn't be 
angry? I'm angry because you treated me — well, so 
impudently, really — clearing out and leaving one to 
whistle to the empty walls. 

Anabel. Don't you think it was time I cleared out, 
when you became so violent, and really dangerous, really 
like a madman? 

Gerald. Time or not time, you went — you disap- 
peared and left us high and dry — and I am still angry. 
— But I'm not only angry about that. I'm angry with 
the colliers, with Labour for its low-down impudence — 
and I'm angry with father for being so ill — and I'm 



54 TOUCH AND GO 

angry with mother for looking such a hopeless thing- 
and I 'm angry with Oliver because he thinks so much — 



Anabel. And what are you angry with yourself 
for? 

Gerald. I 'm angry with myself for being myself — I 
always was that. I was always a curse to myself. 

Anabel. And that's why you curse others so much? 

Gerald. You talk as if butter wouldn't melt in your 
mouth. 

Anabel. You see, Gerald, there has to be a change. 
You'll have to change. 

Gerald. Change of heart? — ^Well, it won't be to get 
softer, Anabel. 

Anabel. You needn't be softer. But you can be 
quieter, more sane even. There ought to be some part 
of you that can be quiet and apart from the world, some 
part that can be happy and gentle. 

Gerald. Well, there isn't. I don't pretend to be able 
to extricate a soft sort of John Halifax, Gentleman, out 
of the machine I 'm mixed up in, and keep him to gladden 
the connubial hearth. I'm angry, and I'm angry right 
through, and I 'm not going to play bo-peep with myself, 
pretending I'm not. 

Anabel. Nobody asks you to. But is there no part 
of you that can be a bit gentle and peaceful and happy 
with a woman? 

Gerald. No, there isn 't. — I 'm not going to smug with 
you — no, not I. You 're smug in your coming back. You 
feel virtuous, and expect me to rise to it. I won't. 

Anabel. Then I'd better have stayed away. 

Gerald. If you want me to virtuise and smug with 
you, you had. 



TOUCH AND GO 55 

Anabel. What do you want, then ? 

Gerald. I don't know. I know I don't want that. 

Anabel. Oh, very well. (Goes to the piano; begins 



to play.) 



(Enter Mrs. Barlow, j 



Gerald. Hello, mother! Father has gone to bed. 

Mrs. Barlow. Oh, I thought he was down here talk- 
ing. You two alone? 

Gerald. With the piano for chaperone, mother. 

Mrs. Barlow. That's more than I gave you credit 
for. I haven't come to chaperone you either, Gerald. 

Gerald. Chaperone me, mother! Do you think I 
need it? 

Mrs. Barlow. If you do, you won't get it. I've come 
too late to be of any use in that way, as far as I hear, 

Gerald. What have you heard, mother? 

Mrs. Barlow. I heard Oliver and this young woman 
talking. 

Gerald. Oh, did you ? When ? What did they say ? 

Mrs. Barlow. Something about married in the sight 
of heaven, but couldn't keep it up on earth. 

Gerald. I don't understand. 

Mrs. Barlow. That you and this young woman were 
married in the sight of heaven, or through eternity, or 
something similar, but that you couldn't make up your 
minds to it on earth. 

Gerald. Really! That's very curious, mother. 

Mrs. Barlow. Very common occurrence, I be- 
lieve, 

Gerald. Yes, so it is. But I don't think you heard 



56 TOUCH AND GO 

quite right, dear. There seems to be some lingering 
uneasiness in heaven, as a matter of fact. "We'd quite 
made up our minds to live apart on earth. But where 
did you hear this, mother? 

Mrs. Barlow. I heard it outside the studio door this 
morning. 

Gerald. You mean you happened to be on one side 
of the door while Oliver and Anabel were talking on 
the other? 

Mrs. Barlow. You'd make a detective, Gerald — 
you're so good at putting two and two together. I lis- 
tened till I'd heard as much as I wanted. I'm not sure 
I didn't come down here hoping to hear another conver- 
sation going on. 

Gerald. Listen outside the door, darling? 

Mrs. Barlow. There 'd be nothing to listen to if I 
were inside. 

Gerald. It isn't usually done, you know. 

Mrs. Barlow. I listen outside doors when I have oc- 
casion to be interested — which isn 't often, unfortunately 
for me. 

Gerald. But I've a queer feeling that you have a 
permanent occasion to be interested in me. I only half 
like it. 

Mrs. Barlow. It's surprising how uninteresting you 
are, Gerald, for a man of your years. I have not had 
occasion to listen outside a door, for you, no, not for a 
great while, believe me. 

Gerald. I believe you implicitly, darling. But do 
you happen to know me through and through, and in 
and out, all my past and present doings, mother? Have 
you a secret access to my room, and a spy-hole, and all 



TOUCH AND GO 57 

those things? This is uncomfortably thrilling. You 
take on a new lustre. 

Mrs. Barlow. Your memoirs wouldn't make you 
famous, my son. 

Gerald. Infamous, dear? 

Mrs. Barlow. Good heavens, no! What a lot you 
expect from your very mild sins! You and this young 
woman have lived together, then? 

Gerald. Don't say "this young woman," mother 
dear — it's slightly vulgar. It isn't for me to compromise 
Anabel by admitting such a thing, you know. 

Mrs. Barlow. Do you ask me to call her Anabel? 
I won't. 

Gerald. Then say "this person," mother. It's more 
becoming. 

Mrs. Barlow. I didn 't come to speak to you, Gerald. 
I know you. I came to speak to this young woman. 

Gerald. "Person," mother. — Will you curtsey, Ana- 
bel? And I'll twist my handkerchief. We shall make 
a Cruikshank drawing, if mother makes her hair a little 
more slovenlj^ 

Mrs. Barlow. You and Gerald were together for 
some time? 

Gerald. Three years, off and on, mother. 

Mrs. Barlow. And then you suddenly dropped my 
son, and went away? 

Gerald. To Norway, mother — so I have gathered. 

Mrs. Barlow. And now you have come back because 
that last one died? 

Gerald. Is he dead, Anabel? How did he die? 

Anabel. He was killed on the ice. 

Gerald. Oh, God! 



58 TOUCH AND GO 

Mrs. Barlow- Now, having had your fill of tragedy, 
you have come back to be demure and to marry Gerald. 
Does he thank you? 

Gerald. You must listen outside the door, mother, 
to find that out. 

Mrs. Barlow. "Well, it's your own affair. 

Gerald. What a lame summing up, mother! — quite 
unworthy of you. 

Anabel. What did you wish to say to me, Mrs. Bar- 
low ? Please say it. 

Mrs. Barlow. What did I wish to say! Ay, what 
did I wish to say! What is the use of my saying any- 
thing? What am I but a buffoon and a slovenly carica- 
ture in the family ? 

Gerald. No, mother dear, don't climb down — please 
don't. Tell Anabel what you wanted to say. 

Mrs. Barlow. Yes — yes — yes. I came to say — don't 
be good to my son — don't be good to him. 

Gerald. Sounds weak, dear — mere contrariness. 

Mrs. Barlow. Don't presume to be good to my son, 
young woman. I won't have it, even if he will. You 
hear me? 

Anabel. Yes. I won't presume, then. 

Gerald. May she presume to be bad to me, mother? 

Mrs. Barlow. For that you may look after yourself. 
— But a woman who was good to him would ruin him in 
six months, take the manhood out of him. He has a 
tendency, a secret hankering, to make a gift of himself 
to somebody. He sha'n't do it. I warn you. I am not 
a woman to be despised. 

Anabel. No — I understand. 

Mrs. Barlow. Only one other thing I ask. If he 



TOUCH AND GO 59 

must fight — and fight he must — let him alone: don't you 
try to shield him or save him. Don't interfere — do you 
hear? 

Anabel. Not till I must. 

Mrs. Barlow. Never. Learn your place, and keep 
it. Keep away from him, if you are going to be a wife 
to him. Don't go too near. And don't let him come too 
near. Beat him off if he tries. Keep a solitude in your 
heart even when you love him best. Keep it. If you 
lose it, you lose everything. 

Gerald. But that isn't love, mother. 

Mrs. Barlow. What? 

Gerald. That isn 't love. 

Mrs. Barlow. What? What do you know of love, 
you ninny? You only know the feeding-bottle. It's 
what you want, all of you — to be brought up by hand, 
and mew about love. Ah, God! — Ah, God! — that you 
should none of you know the only thing which would 
make you worth having. 

Gerald. I don't believe in your only thing, mother. 
But what is it ? 

Mrs. Barlow. What you haven't got — the power to 
be alone. 

Gerald. Sort of megalomania, you mean ? 

Mrs. Barlow. What? Megalomania! What is your 
love but a megalomania, flowing over everybody and 
everything like spilt water? Megalomania! I hate you, 
you softy! I would heat you (suddenly advancing on 
Mm and heating Jiim fiercely) — beat you into some man- 
hood — beat you 

Gerald. Stop, mother — keep off. 

Mrs. Barlow. It's the men who need beating nowa- 



60 TOUCH AND GO 

days, not the children. Beat the softness out of him, 
young woman. It 's the only way, if you love him enough 
— if you love him enough. 
Gerald. You hear, Anabel? 

Speak roughly to your little boy, 
And beat him when he sneezes. 

Mrs. Barlow (cat citing up a large old fan, and smash- 
ing it about his head). You softy — you piffler — you will 
never have had enough! Ah, you should be thrust in 
the fire, you should, to have the softness and the brittle- 
ness burnt out of you ! 

(The door opens — Oliver Turton enters, followed by 
Job Arthur Freer. Mrs. Barlow is still attacking 
Gerald. She turns, infuriated.) 

Go out! Go out! What do you mean by coming in 
unannounced ? Take him upstairs — take that fellow into 
the library, Oliver Turton. 

Gerald. Mother, you improve our already pretty 
reputation. Already they say you are mad. 

Mrs. Barlow (ringing violently). Let me be mad 
then, I am mad — driven mad. One day I shall kill 
you, Gerald. 

Gerald. You won't, mother, because I sha'n't let 
you. 

Mrs. Barlow. Let me ! — let me ! As if I should wait 
for you to let me ! 

Gerald. I am a match for you even in violence, come 
to that. 



TOUCH AND GO 61 

Mrs. Barlow. A match! A damp match. A wet 
match. 

(Enter Butler. J 

William. You rang, madam? 

Mrs. Barlow. Clear up those bits. — Where are you 
going to see that white-faced fellow? Here? 

Gerald. I think so. 

Mrs. Barlow. You will still have them coming to 
the house, will you? You will still let them trample in 
our private rooms, will you? Bah! I ought to leave 
you to your own devices. (Exit.) 

Gerald. When you've done that, William, ask Mr. 
Freer to come down here. 

William. Yes, sir. (A pause. Exit William. J 

Gerald. So — o — o. You've had another glimpse of 
the family life. 

Anabel. Yes. Rather — disturbing. 

Gerald. Not at all, when you're used to it. Mother 
isn't as mad as she pretends to be. 

Anabel. I don't think she's mad at all. I think she 
has most desperate courage. 

Gerald. "Courage" is good. That's a new term 
for it. 

Anabel. Yes, courage. When a man says "courage" 
he means the courage to die. A woman means the cour- 
age to live. That's what women hate men most for, 
that they haven 't the courage to live. 

Gerald. Mother takes her courage into both hands 
rather late. 

Anabel. We're a little late ourselves. 



62 TOUCH AND GO 

Gerald. We are, rather. By the way, you seem to 
have had plenty of the courage of death — you've played 
a pretty deathly game, it seems to me — both when I knew 
you and afterwards, you've had your finger pretty deep 
in the death-pie. 

Anabel. That's why I want a change of — of 

Gerald. Of heart? — Better take mother's tip, and 
try the poker. 

Anabel. I will. 

Gerald. Ha — corraggio ! 

Anabel. Yes — corraggio ! 

Gerald. Corraggiaceio ! 

Anabel. Corraggione ! 

Gerald. Cock-a-doodle-doo ! 

(Enter Oliver and Freer.) 

Oh, come in. Don't be afraid; it's a charade. (^Ana- 
bel rises.) No, don't go, Anabel. Corraggio! Take a 
seat, Mr. Freer. 

Job Arthur. Sounds like a sneezing game, doesn't 
it? 

Gerald. It is. Do you know the famous rhyme: 

Speak roughly to your little boy, 
And beat him when he sneezes? 

Job Arthur. No, I can't say I do, 

Gerald. My mother does. Will you have anything 
to drink? Will you help yourself? 

Job Arthur. Well — no — I don't think I'll have any- 
thing, thanks. 



TOUCH AND GO 63 

Gerald. A cherry brandy? — Yes? — Anabel, what's 
yours ? 

Anabel. Did I see Kiimmel? 

Gerald. You did. (TJiey all take drinks.) What's 
the latest, Mr. Freer? 

Job Arthur. The latest? Well, I don't know, I'm 
sure 

Gerald. Oh, yes. Trot it out. We're quite private. 

Job Arthur. Well — I don't know. There's several 
things. 

Gerald. The more the merrier. 

Job Arthur. I'm not so sure. The men are in a 
very funny temper, Mr. Barlow — very funny. 

Gerald. Coincidence — so am I. Not surprising, is 
it? 

Job Arthur. The men, perhaps not. 

Gerald. What else. Job Arthur? 

Job Arthur. You know the men have decided to 
stand by the office men? 

Gerald. Yes. 

Job Arthur. They've agreed to come out next Mon- 
day. 

Gerald. Have they ? 

Job Arthur. Yes; there was no stopping them. 
They decided for it like one man. 

Gerald. How was that? 

Job Arthur. That's what surprises me. They're a 
jolly sight more certain over this than they've ever 
been over their own interests. 

Gerald. All their love for the office clerks coming 
out in a rush? 



64 TOUCH AND GO 

Job Arthur. Well, I don't know about love; but 
that's how it is. 

Gerald. What is it, if it isn't love? 

Job Arthur. I can't say. They're in a funny tem- 
per. It's hard to make out. 

Gerald. A funny temper, are they ? Then I suppose 
we ought to laugh. 

Job Arthur. No, I don't think it's a laughing mat- 
ter. They're coming out on Monday for certain. 

Gerald. Yes — so are daffodils. 

Job Arthur. Beg pardon? 

Gerald. Daffodils. 

Job Arthur. No, I don't follow what you mean. 

Gerald. Don't you? But I thought Alfred Breffit 
and William Straw were not very popular. 

Job Arthur. No, they aren't — not in themselves. 
But it's the principle of the thing — so it seems. 

Gerald. What principle? 

Job Arthur. Why, all sticking together, for one 
thing — all Barlow & Walsall's men holding by one an- 
other. 

Gerald. United we stand? 

Job Arthur. That's it. And then it's the strong 
defending the weak as well. There's three thousand 
colliers standing up for thirty-odd office men. I must 
say I think it's sporting myself. 

Gerald. You do, do you ? United we stand, divided 
we fall. What do they stand for, really? What is it? 

Job Arthur. Well — for their right to a living wage. 
That's how I see it. 

Gerald. For their right to a living wage ! Just that ? 

Job Arthur. Yes, sir — that 's how I see it. 



TOUCH AND GO 65 

Gerald. Well, that doesn't seem so preposterously- 
difficult, does it ? 

Job Arthur. Why, that's what I think myself, Mr. 
Gerald. It's such a little thing. 

Gerald. Quite. I suppose the men themselves are 
to judge what is a living wage? 

Job Arthur. Oh, I think they're quite reasonable, 
you know. 

Gerald. Oh, yes, eminently reasonable. Reason's 
their strong point. — And if they get their increase 
they'll be quite contented! 

Job Arthur. Yes, as far as I know, they will. 

Gerald. As far as you know? Why, is there some- 
thing you don't know? — something you're not sure 
about ? 

Job Arthur. No — I don't think so. I think they'll 
be quite satisfied this time. 

Gerald. Why this time ? Is there going to be a next 
time — every-day-has-its-to-morrow kind of thing? 

Job Arthur. I don't know about that. It's a funny 
world, Mr. Barlow. 

Gerald. Yes, I quite believe it. How do you see 
it funny ? 

Job Arthur. Oh, I don't know. Everything's in a 
funny state, 

Gerald. What do you mean by everything ? 

Job Arthur. Well — I mean things in general — 
Labour, for example. 

Gerald. You think Labour's in a funny state, do 
you? What do you think it wants? What do you 
think, personally? 



66 TOUCH AND GO 

Job Arthur. Well, in my own mind, I think it wants 
a bit of its own back. 

Gerald. And how does it mean to get it? 

Job Arthur. Ha! that's not so easy to say. But it 
means to have it, in the long run. 

Gerald. You mean by increasing demands for 
higher wages? 

Job Arthur. Yes, perhaps that's one road. 

Gerald. Do you see any other? 

Job Arthur. Not just for the present. 

Gerald. But later on? 

Job Arthur. I can't say about that. The men will 
be quiet enough for a bit, if it's all right about the office 
men, you know. 

Gerald. Probably. But have Barlow & Walsall's 
men any special grievance apart from the rest of the 
miners ? 

Job Arthur. I don't know. They've no liking for 
you, you know, sir. 

Gerald. Why? 

Job Arthur. They think you 've got a down on them. 

Gerald. Why should they? 

Job Arthur. I don't know, sir; but they do. 

Gerald. So they have a personal feeling against me? 
You don't think all the colliers are the same, all over 
the country? 

Job Arthur. I think there's a good deal of feel- 
ing 

Gerald. Of wanting their own back? 

Job Arthur. That's it. 

Gerald. But what can they do? I don't see what 
they can do. They can go out on strike — but they've 



TOUCH AND GO 67 

done that before, and the owners, at a pinch, can stand 
it better than they can. As for the ruin of the industry, 
if they do ruin it, it falls heaviest on them. In fact, it 
leaves them destitute. There 's nothing they can do, you 
know, that doesn't hit them worse than it hits us. 

Job Arthur. I know there's something in that. But 
if they had a strong man to lead them, you see 

Gerald. Yes, I 've heard a lot about that strong man 
— but I 've never come across any signs of him, you know. 
I don't believe in one strong man appearing out of so 
many little men. All men are pretty big in an age, or 
in a movement, which produces a really big man. And 
Labour is a great swarm of hopelessly little men. That 's 
how I see it. 

Job Arthur. I'm not so sure about that. 

Gerald. I am. Labour is a thing that can't have 
a head. It's a sort of unwieldy monster that's bound 
to run its skull against the wall sooner or later, and 
knock out what bit of brain it 's got. You see, you need 
wit and courage and real understanding if you're going 
to do anything positive. And Labour has none of these 
things — certainly it shows no signs of them. 

Job Arthur. Yes, when it has a chance, I think 
you'll see plenty of courage and plenty of under- 
standing. 

Gerald. It always had a chance. And where one 
sees a bit of courage, there's no understanding; and 
where there's some understanding, there's absolutely no 
courage. It's hopeless, you know — it would be far best 
if they'd all give it up, and try a new line. 

Job Arthur. I don't think they will. 

Gerald. No, I don't, either. They'll make a mess. 



68 TOUCH AND GO 

and when they've made it, they'll never get out of it. 
They can't — they're too stupid. 

Job Arthur. They 've never had a try yet, 

Gerald. They're trying every day. They just 
simply couldn't control modern industry — they haven't 
the intelligence. They've no life intelligence. The 
owners may have little enough, but Labour has none. 
They're just mechanical little things that can make one 
or two motions, and they're done. They've no more idea 
of life than a lawn-mower has. 

Job Arthur. It remains to be seen. 

Gerald. No, it doesn't. It's perfectly obvious — 
there's nothing remains to be seen. All that Labour is 
capable of, is smashing things up. And even for that 
I don't believe it has either the energy or the courage 
or the bit of necessary passion, or slap-dash — call it 
whatever you will. However, we'll see. 

Job Arthur. Yes, sir. Perhaps you see now why 
you're not so very popular, Mr. Gerald. 

Gerald. "We can't all be popular, Job Arthur. 
You're very high up in popularity, I believe. 

Job Arthur. Not so very. They listen to me a bit. 
But you never know when they '11 let you down. I know 
they'll let me down one day — so it won't be a surprise. 

Gerald. I should think not. 

Job Arthur. But about the office men, Mr. Gerald. 
You think it'll be all right? 

Gerald. Oh, yes, that'll be all right. 

Job Arthur. Easiest for this time, anyhow, sir. We 
don't want bloodshed, do we? 

Gerald. I shouldn't mind at all. It might clear the 
way to something. But I have absolutely no belief in 



TOUCH AND GO 69 

the power of Labour even to bring about anything so 
positive as bloodshed. 

Job Arthur. I don 't know about that — I don 't know. 
Well. 

Gerald. Have another drink before you go. — Yes, 
do. Help yourself. 

Job Arthur. Well — if you're so pressing, (Helps 
himself.) Here's luck, all! 

All. Thanks. 

Gerald. Take a cigar — there's the box. Go on — 
take a handful — fill your ease. 

Job Arthur. They're a great luxury nowadays, 
aren't they? Almost beyond a man like me. 

Gerald. Yes, that's the worst of not being a bloated 
capitalist. Never mind, you'll be a Cabinet Minister 
some day. — Oh, all right — I'll open the door for you. 

Job Arthur. Oh, don't trouble. Good night — good 
night. (Exeunt.) 

Oliver. Oh, God, what a world to live in! 

Anabel. I rather liked him. What is he? 

Oliver. Checkweighman — local secretary for the 
Miners' Federation — plays the violin well, although he 
was a collier, and it spoilt his hands. They're a musical 
family. 

Anabel. But isn't he rather nice? 

Oliver. I don 't like him. But I confess he's a study. 
He's the modern Judas. 

Anabel. Don't you think he likes Gerald? 

Oliver. I'm sure he does. The way he suns himself 
here — like a cat purring in his luxuriation. 

Anabel. Yes — I don't mind it. It shows a certain 
sensitiveness and a certain taste. 



70 TOUCH AND GO 

Oliver. Yes, he has both — touch of the artist, as 
Mrs. Barlow says. He loves refinement, culture, breed- 
ing, all those things — ^loves them — and a presence, a fine 
free manner. 

Anabel. But that is nice in him. 

Oliver. Quite. But what he loves, and what he 
admires, and what he aspires to, he miist betray. It's 
his fatality. He lives for the moment when he can kiss 
Gerald in the Garden of Olives, or wherever it was. 

Anabel. But Gerald shouldn't be kissed. 

Oliver. That's what I say. 

Anabel. And that's what his mother means as well, 
I suppose. 

(Enter Gerald.^ 

Gerald. "Well — you've heard the voice of the people. 

Anabel. He isn't the people. 

Gerald. I think he is, myself — the epitome. 

Oliver. No, he's a special type. 

Gerald. Ineffectual, don't you think? 

Anabel. How pleased you are, Gerald ! How pleased 
you are with yourself ! You love the turn with him. 

Gerald. It's rather stimulating, you know. 

Anabel. It oughtn't to be, then. 

Oliver. He 's your Judas, and you love him. 

Gerald. Nothing so deep. He's just a sort of 
^olian harp that sings to the temper of the wind. I 
find him amusing. 

Anabel. I think it's boring. 

Oliver. And I think it's nasty. 



TOUCH AND GO 71 

Gerald. I believe you're both jealous of him. What 
do you think of the British working man, Oliver ? 

Oliver. It seems to me he's in nearly as bad a way 
as the British employer: he's nearly as much beside the 
point. 

Gerald. What point? 

Oliver. Oh, just life. 

Gerald. That's too vague, my boy. Do you think 
they'll ever make a bust-up? 

Oliver. I can't tell. I don't see any good in it, if 
they do. 

Gerald. It might clear the way — and it might block 
the way for ever: depends what comes through. But, 
sincerely, I don't think they've got it in them, 

Anabel. They may have something better. 

Gerald. That suggestion doesn't interest me, Anabel. 
Ah, well, we shall see what we shall see. Have a whisky 
and soda with me, Oliver, and let the troubled course of 
this evening run to a smooth close. It's quite like old 
times. Aren't you smoking, Anabel? 

Anabel. No, thanks. 

Gerald. I believe you're a reformed character. So 
it won't be like old times, after all. 

Anabel. I don't want old times. I want new ones. 

Gerald. Wait till Job Arthur has risen like Anti- 
christ, and proclaimed the resurrection of the gods. — 
Do you see Job Arthur proclaiming Dionysos and 
Aphrodite ? 

Anabel. It bores me. I don't like your mood. 
Good night. 

Gerald. Oh, don't go. 

Anabel. Yes, good night. (Exit.) 



72 TOUCH AND GO 

Oliver. She's not reformed, Gerald. She's the same 
old moral character — ^moral to the last bit of her, really 
— as she always was. 

Gerald. Is that what it is? — But one must be moral. 

Oliver. Oh, yes. Oliver Cromwell wasn't as moral 
as Anabel is — nor such an iconoclast. 

Gerald. Poor old Anabel ! 

Oliver. How she hates the dark gods ! 

Gerald. And yet they cast a spell over her. Poor old 
Anabel ! Well, Oliver, is Bacchus the father of whisky ? 

Oliver. I don't know. — I don't like you either. 
You seem to smile all over yourself. It's objectionable. 
Good night. 

Gerald. Oh, look here, this is censorious. 

Oliver. You smile to yourself. (Exit.) 

(Curtain.) 



ACT III 

Scene I 

An old park. Early evening. In the hachground a 
low Georgian liall, wJiicJi has been turned into of- 
fices for the Company, shows windows already 
lighted. Gerald and Anabel walk along the path. 

Anabel. How beautiful this old park is ! 

Gerald. Yes, it is beautiful — seems so far away 
from everywhere, if one doesn't remember that the hall 
is turned into offices. — No one has lived here since I was 
a little boy. I remember going to a Christmas party at 
the Walsalls'. 

Anabel. Has it been shut up so long? 

Gerald. The Walsalls didn't like it — too near the 
ugliness. They were county, you know — we never were : 
father never gave mother a chance, there. And besides, 
the place is damp, cellars full of water. 

Anabel. Even now? 

Gerald. No, not now — they've been drained. But 
the place would be too damp for a dwelling-house. It's 
all right as offices. They burn enormous fires. The rooms 
are quite charming. This is what happens to the stately 
homes of England — they buzz with inky clerks, or their 
equivalent. Stateliness is on its last legs. 

Anabel. Yes, it grieves me — though I should be 
73 



74 TOUCH AND GO 

bored if I had to be stately, I think. — Isn't it beautiful 
in this light, like an eighteenth-century aquatint? I'm 
sure no age was as ugly as this, since the world began. 

Gerald. For pure ugliness, certainly not. And I 
believe none has been so filthy to live in. — Let us sit 
down a minute, shall we? and watch the rooks fly home. 
It always stirs sad, sentimental feelings in me. 

Anabel. So it does in me. — Listen ! one can hear the 
coal-carts on the road — and the brook — and the dull noise 
of the town — and the beating of New London pit — and 
voices — and the rooks — and yet it is so still. "We seem 
so still here, don 't we ? 

Gerald. Yes. 

Anabel. Don't you think we've been wrong? 

Gerald. How ? 

Anabel. In the way we've lived — and the way we've 
loved. 

Gerald. It hasn't been heaven, has it? Yet I don't 
know that we've been wrong, Anabel. "We had it to go 
through. 

Anabel. Perhaps. — And, yes, we've been wrong, too. 

Gerald. Probably. Only, I don't feel it like that. 

Anabel. Then I think you ought. You ought to feel 
you 've been wrong. 

Gerald. Yes, probably. Only, I don't. I can't help 
it. I think we've gone the way we had to go, following 
our own natures. 

Anabel. And where has it landed us ? 

Gerald. Here. 

Anabel. And where is that? 

Gerald. Just on this bench in the park, looking at 
the evening. 



TOUCH AND GO 



75 



Anabel. 
Gerald. 
Anabel. 
Gerald. 
Anabel. 
Gerald. 
Anabel. 
been. 
Gerald. 
Anabel. 



But what next? 
God knows ! Why trouble ? 
One must trouble. I want to feel sure. 
What of? 

Of you — and of myself. 
Then he sure. 
But I can't. Think of the past — what it's 



This isn't the past. 

But what is it? Is there anything sure in 
it ? Is there any real happiness ? 

Gerald. Why not ? 

Anabel. But how can you ask? Think of what our 
life has been. 

Gerald. I don't want to. 

Anabel. No, you don't. But what do you want? 

Gerald. I'm all right, you know, sitting here like 
this. 

Anabel. 

Gerald. 

Anabel. 

Gerald. 
a bit. 

Anabel. 

Gerald. 

Anabel. 

Gerald. 

Anabel. 
forget. 

Gerald. 

Anabel. 
happy. 



But one can 't sit here for ever, can one ? 
I don't want to. 

And what will you do when we leave here? 
God knows! Don't worry me. Be still 

But I'm worried. You don't love me. 
I won't argue it. 
And I'm not happy. 
Why not, Anabel ? 
Because you don't love me — and I can't 

I do love you — and to-night I've forgotten. 
Then make me forget, too. Make me 



76 



TOUCH AND GO 



Gerald. I can't make you — and you know it. 

An ABEL. Yes, you can. It's your business to make 
me happy. I 've made you happy. 

Gerald. You want to make me unhappy. 

Anabel. I do think you're the last word in selfish- 
ness. If I say I can't forget, you merely say, "I've 
forgotten"; and if I say I'm unhappy, all you can an- 
swer is that I want to make you unhappy. I don 't in the 
least. I want to be happy myself. But you don't help 
me. 

Gerald. There is no help for it, you see. If you 
were happy with me here you'd be happy. As you 
aren't, nothing will make you — not genuinely. 

Anabel. And that 's all you care. 

Gerald. No — I wish we could both be happy at the 
same moment. But apparently we can't. 

Anabel. And why not? — Because you're selfish, and 
think of nothing but yourself and your own feelings. 

Gerald. If it is so, it is so. 

Anabel. Then we shall never be happy. 

Gerald. Then we sha 'n 't. (A pause.) 

Anabel. Then what are we going to do? 

Gerald. Do? 

Anabel. Do you want me to be with you? 

Gerald. Yes. 

Anabel. Are you sure? 

Gerald. Yes. 

Anabel. Then why don't you want me to be happy? 

Gerald. If you'd only he happy, here and now 

Anabel. How can I? 

Gerald. How can't you? — You've got a devil inside 
you. 



TOUCH AND GO 77 

Anabel. Then make me not have a devil. 

Gerald. I've known you long enough — and known 
myself long enough — to know I can make you nothing 
at all, Anabel : neither can you make me. If the happi- 
ness isn't there — well, we shall have to wait for it, like 
a dispensation. It probably means we shall have to 
hate each other a little more. — I suppose hate is a real 
process. 

Anabel. Yes, I know you believe more in hate than 
in love. 

Gerald. Nobody is more weary of hate than I am — 
and yet we can't fix our own hour, when we shall leave 
off hating and fighting. It has to work itself out in us. 

Anabel. But I don't want to hate and fight with 
you any more. I don't believe in it — not any more. 

Gerald. It's a cleansing process — like Aristotle's 
Katharsis. We shall hate ourselves clean at last, I 
suppose. 

Anabel. Why aren't you clean now? Why can't 
you love? (He laughs.) Do you love me? 

Gerald. Yes. 

Anabel. Do you want to be with me for ever? 

Gerald. Yes. 

Anabel. Sure ? 

Gerald. Quite sure. 

Anabel. Why are you so cool about it? 

Gerald. I 'm not. I 'm only sure — which you are not. 

Anabel. Yes, I am — I loant to be married to you. 

Gerald. I know you want me to want you to be mar- 
ried to me. But whether off your own bat you have a 
positive desire that way, I'm not sure. You keep some- 
thing back — some sort of female reservation — ^like a dag- 



78 TOUCH AND GO 

ger up your sleeve. You want to see me in transports 
of love for you. 

Anabel. How can you say so? There — you see — 
there — this is the man that pretends to love me, and 
then says I keep a dagger up my sleeve. You liar! 

Gerald. I do love you — and you do keep a dagger 
up your sleeve — some devilish little female reservation 
which spies at me from a distance, in your soul, all the 
time, as if I were an enemy. 

Anabel. How can you say so? — Doesn't it show 
what you must be yourself? Doesn't it show? — What 
is there in your soul ? 

Gerald. I don't know. 

Anabel. Love, pure love ? — Do you pretend it's love ? 

Gerald. I 'm so tired of this. 

Anabel. So am I, dead tired: you self-deceiving, 
self-complacent thing. Ha! — aren't you just the same? 
You haven't altered one scrap, not a scrap. 

Gerald. All right — you are always free to change 
yourself. 

Anabel. I Jiave changed, I am better, I do love you — 
I love you wholly and unselfishly — I do — and I want a 
good new life with you. 

Gerald. You're terribly wrapped up in your new 
goodness. I wish you 'd make up your mind to be down- 
right bad. 

Anabel. Ha! — Do you? — You'd soon see. You'd 
soon see where you'd be if There's somebody com- 
ing. (Rises.) 

Gerald. Never mind; it's the clerks leaving work, I 
suppose. Sit still. 

Anabel. Won't you go? 



TOUCH AND GO 79 

Gerald. No. (A man draws near, followed "by an- 
otTier.) Good evening. 

Clerk. Good evening, sir. (Passes on.) Good even- 
ing, Mr. Barlow. 

Anabel. They are afraid. 

Gerald. I suppose their consciences are uneasy about 
this strike. 

Anabel. Did you come to sit here just to catch them, 
like a spider waiting for them ? 

Gerald. No. I wanted to speak to Breffitt. 

Anabel. I believe you're capable of any horridness. 

Gerald. All right, you believe it. (Two more figures 
approach.) Good evening. 

Clerks. Good night, sir. (One passes, one stops.) 
Good evening, Mr. Barlow. Er — did you want to see 
Mr. Breffitt, sir? 

Gerald. Not particularly. 

Clerk. Oh! He'll be out directly, sir — if you'd like 
me to go back and tell him you wanted him? 

Gerald. No, thank you. 

Clerk. Good night, sir. Excuse me asking. 

Gerald. Good night. 

Anabel. Who is Mr. Breffitt? 

Gerald. He is the chief clerk — and cashier — one of 
father's old pillars of society. 

Anabel. Don't you like him? 

Gerald. Not much. 

Anabel. Why? — You seem to dislike very easily. 

Gerald. Oh, they all used to try to snub me, these 
old buffers. They detest me like poison, because I am 
different from father. 

Anabel. I believe you enjoy being detested. 



80 TOUCH AND GO 

Gerald. I do. (AnotJier clerk approaches — Jiesitates 
— stops.) 

Clerk. Good evening, sir. Good evening, Mr. Bar- 
low. Er — did you want anybody at the office, sir? 
We're just closing. 

Gerald. No, I didn't want anybody. 

Clerk. Oh, no, sir. I see. Er — by the way, sir — 
er — I hope you don't think this — er — bother about an 
increase — this strike threat — started in the office? 

Gerald. Where did it start? 

Clerk. I should think it started — where it usually 
starts, Mr. Barlow — among a few loud-mouthed people 
who think they can do as they like with the men. 
They're only using the office men as a cry — that's all. 
They've no interest in us. They want to show their 
power. — That's how it is, sir. 

Gerald. Oh, yes. 

Clerk. We're powerless, if they like to make a cry 
out of us. 

Gerald. Quite. 

Clerk. We're as much put out about it as anybody. 

Gerald. Of course. 

Clerk. Yes — well — good night, sir. (Clerks draw 
near — there is a sound of loud young voices and bicycle 
hells. Bicycles sweep past.) 

Clerks. Good night, sir. — Good night, sir. 

Gerald. Good night. — They 're very bucked to see me 
sitting here with a woman — a young lady as they '11 say. 
I guess your name will be flying round to-morrow. They 
stop partly to have a good look at you. Do they know 
you, do you think? 

Anabel. Sure. 



TOUCH AND GO 81 

Clerks, Mr. Breffitt's just coming, sir. — Good night, 
sir. — Good night, sir. (Another bicycle passes.) 

Anabel. The bicycles don't see us. — Isn't it rather 
hateful to be a master? The attitude of them all is so 
ugly. I can quite see that it makes you rather a bully. 

Gerald. I suppose it does. (Figure of a large man 
approaches.) 

Breffitt. Oh — ah — it's Mr. Gerald! — I couldn't 
make out who it was. — Were you coming up to the office, 
sir ? Do you want me to go back with you ? 

Gerald. No, thank you — I just wanted a word with 
you about this agitation. It'll do just as well here. It's 
a pity it started — that the office should have set it go- 
ing, Breffitt. 

Breffitt. It's none of the office's doing, I think 
you'll find, Mr. Gerald. The office men did nothing but 
ask for a just advance — at any rate, times and prices 
being what they are, I consider it a fair advance. If the 
men took it up, it's because they've got a set of loud- 
mouthed blatherers and agitators among them like Job 
Arthur Freer, who deserve to be hung — and hanging 
they'd get, if I could have the judging of them. 

Gerald. Well — it's very unfortunate — because we 
can't give the clerks their increase now, you know. 

Breffitt. Can't you? — can't you? I can't see that 
it would be anything out of the way, if I say what I 
think. 

Gerald. No. They won't get any increase now. It 
shouldn 't have been allowed to become a public cry with 
the colliers. We can't give in now. 

Breffitt. Have the Board decided that? 
Gerald. They have — on my advice. 



82 TOUCH AND GO 

Breffitt. Hm ! — then the men will come out. 

Gerald. We will see. 

Breffitt, It's trouble for nothing — it's trouble that 
could be avoided. The clerks could have their advance, 
and it would hurt nobody. 

Gerald. Too late now. — I suppose if the men come 
out, the clerks will come out with them? 

Breffitt. They'll have to — they'll have to. 

Gerald. If they do, we may then make certain alter- 
ations in the office staff which have needed making for 
some time. 

Breffitt. Very good — very good. I know what you 
mean. — I don 't know how your father bears all this, Mr. 
Gerald. 

Gerald. "We keep it from him as much as possible. — 
You'll let the clerks know the decision. And if they 
stay out with the men, I'll go over the list of the staff 
with you. It has needed revising for a long time. 

Breffitt. I know what you mean — I know what you 
mean — I believe I understand the firm's interest in my 
department. I ought, after forty years studying it. 
I've studied the firm's interests for forty years, Mr. 
Gerald. I 'm not likely to forget them now. 

Gerald. Of course. 

Breffitt. But I think it's a mistake — I think it's a 
mistake, and I'm bound to say it, to let a great deal of 
trouble rise for a very small cause. The clerks might 
have had what they reasonably asked her. 

Gerald. Well, it's too late now. 

Breffitt. I suppose it is — I suppose it is. I hope 
you'll remember, sir, that I've put the interest of the 
firm before everything — before every consideration. 



TOUCH AND GO 83 

Gerald, Of course, Breffitt. 

Breffitt. But you've not had any liking for the 
office staff, I'm afraid, sir— not since your father put you 
amongst us for a few months. — Well, sir, we shall weather 
this gale, I hope, as we've weathered those in the past. 
Times don't become better, do they? Men are an 
ungrateful lot, and these agitators should be lynched. 
They would, if I had my way. 

Gerald. Yes, of course. Don't wait. 

Breffitt. Good night to you. (Exit.) 

Gerald. Good night. 

Anabel. He's the last, apparently. 

Gerald. We'll hope so. 

Anabel. He puts you in a fury. 

Gerald. It's his manner. My father spoilt them — 
abominable old limpets. And they're so self-righteous. 
They think I'm a sort of criminal who has instigated 
this new devilish system which runs everything so close 
and cuts it so fine — as if they hadn 't made this inevitable 
by their shameless carelessness and wastefulness in the 
past. He may well boast of his forty years — forty years ' 
crass, stupid wastefulness. 

(Two or three more clerks pass, talking till tJiey ap- 
proach the seat, then becoming silent after bidding 
good night.) 

Anabel. But aren 't you a bit sorry for them ? 

Gerald. Why? If they're poor, what does it matter 
in a world of chaos? 

Anabel. And aren't you an obstinate ass not to give 
them the bit they want. It's mere stupid obstinacy. 



84 TOUCH AND GO 

Gerald. It may be. I call it policy. 

Anabel. Men always do call their obstinacy policy. 

Gerald. Well, I don't care what happens. I wish 
things would come to a head. I only fear they won 't. 

Anabel. Aren't you rather wicked? — Askmg for 
strife? 

Gerald. I hope I am. It's quite a relief to me to 
feel that I may be wicked. I fear I'm not. I can see 
them all anticipating victory, in their low-down fashion 
wanting to crow their low-down crowings. I'm afraid 
I feel it's a righteous cause, to cut a lot of little combs 
before I die. 

Anabel. But if they're in the right in what they 
want? 

Gerald. In the right — in the right! — They're just 
greedy, incompetent, stupid, gloating in a sense of the 
worst sort of power. They're like vicious children, who 
would like to kill their parents so that they could have 
the run of the larder. The rest is just cant. 

Anabel. If you 're the parent in the case, I must say 
you flow over with loving-kindness for them. 

Gerald. I don't — I detest them. I only hope they 
will fight. If they would, I'd have some respect for 
them. But you '11 see what it will be. 

Anabel. I wish I needn't, for it's very sickening. 

Gerald. Sickening beyond expression. 

Anabel. I wish we could go right away. 

Gerald. So do I — If one could get oneself out of this. 
But one can't. It's the same wherever you have in- 
dustrialism — and you have industrialism everywhere, 
whether it's Timbuctoo or Paraguay or Antananarivo. 

Anabel. No, it isn 't : you exaggerate. 



TOUCH AND GO 85 

Job Arthur (suddenly approacliing from the other 
side). Good evening, Mr. Barlow, I heard you were in 
here. Could I have a word with you? 

Gerald. Get on with it, then. 

Job Arthur. Is it right that you won't meet the 
clerks ? 

Gerald. Yes. 

Job Arthur. Not in any way? 

Gerald. Not in any way whatsoever. 

Job Arthur. But — I thought I understood from you 
the other night 

Gerald. It 's all the same what you understood. 

Job Arthur. Then you take it back, sir? 

Gerald. I take nothing back, because I gave 
nothing. 

Job Arthur. Oh, excuse me, excuse me, sir. You 
said it would be all right about the clerks. This lady 
heard you say it. 

Gerald. Don't you call witnesses against me. — Be- 
sides, what does it matter to you? WhaL in the name 
of 

Job Arthur. Well, sir, you said it would be all right, 
and I went on that 

Gerald. You went on that! Where did you go to? 

Job Arthur. The men '11 be out on Monday. 

Gerald. So shall I. 

Job Arthur. Oh, yes, but — where 's it going to end? 

Gerald. Do you want me to prophesy? When did 
I set up for a public prophet? 

Job Arthur. I don 't know, sir. But perhaps you 're 
doing more than you know. There's a funny feeling 
just now among the men. 



86 TOUCH AND GO 

Gerald. So I've heard before. Why should I con- 
cern myself with their feelings? Am I to cry when 
every collier bumps his funny-bone — or to laugh? 

Job Arthur. It's no laughing matter, you see. 

Gerald. And I 'm sure it 's no crying matter — unless 
you want to cry, do you see ? 

Job Arthur. Ah, but, very likely, it wouldn 't be me 
who would cry. — You don't know what might happen, 
now. 

Gerald. I'm waiting for something to happen. I 
should like something to happen — very much — very 
much indeed. 

Job Arthur. Yes, but perhaps you'd be sorry if it 
did happen. 

Gerald. Is that a warning or a threat? 

Job Arthur. I don't know — it might be a bit of 
both. What I mean to say 

Gerald (suddenly seizing Mm by the scruff of the 
neck and sJiaking Jiim). What do you mean to say? — 
I mean you to say less, do you see? — a great deal less — 
do you see? You've run on with your saying long 
enough: that clock had better run down. So stop your 
sayings — stop your sayings, I tell you — or you'll have 
them shaken out of you — shaken out of you — shaken out 
of you, do you see? (Suddenly flings Mm aside.) 

fJoB Arthur, staggering, falls.) 

Anabel. Oh, no! — oh, no! 

Gerald. Now get up. Job Arthur; and get up wiser 
than you went down. You've played your little game 
and your little tricks and made your little sayings long 



TOUCH AND GO 87 

enough. You're going to stop now. We've had quite 
enough of strong men of your stamp, Job Arthur — quite 
enough — such labour leaders as you. 

Job Arthur. You '11 be sorry, Mr. Barlow — you '11 be 
sorry. You '11 wish you 'd not attacked me. 

Gerald. Don 't you trouble about me and my sorrow. 
Mind your own. 

Job Arthur. You will — you'll be sorry. You'll be 
sorry for what you've done. You'll wish you'd never 
begun this. 

Gerald. Begun — begun ? — I 'd like to finish, too, that 
I would. I'd like to finish with you, too — I warn you. 

Job Arthur. I warn you — I warn you. You won't 
go on much longer. Every parish has its own vermin. 

Gerald. Vermin ? 

Job Arthur. Every parish has its own vermin; it 
lies with every perish to destroy its own. We sha'n't 
have a clean parish till we've destroyed the vermin 
we've got. 

Gerald. Vermin? The fool's raving. Vermin! — 
Another phrase-maker, by God! Another phrase-maker 
to lead the people. — Vermin? What vermin? I know 
quite well what / mean by vermin. Job Arthur. But 
what do you mean? Vermin? Explain yourself. 

Job Arthur. Yes, vermin. Vermin is what lives on 
other people's lives, living on their lives and profiting 
by it. We've got 'em in every parish — vermin, I say — 
that live on the sweat and blood of the people — live on 
it, and get rich on it — get rich through living on other 
people's lives, the lives of the working men — living on 
the bodies of the working men — that 's vermin — if it isn 't, 



88 TOUCH AND GO 

what is it? And every parish must destroy its own — 
every parish must destroy its own vermin. 

Gerald, The phrase, my God! the phrase. 

Job Arthur. Phrase or not phrase, there it is, and 
face it out if you can. There it is — there's not one in 
every parish — there's more than one — there's a num- 
ber 

Gerald (suddenly kicking Mm). Go! (Kicks Mm.) 
Go! (Kicks Mm.) Go! fJoB Arthur falls.) Get outl 
(Kicks Mm.) Get out, I say! Get out, I tell you ! Get 
out! Get out! — Vermin! — Vermin! — I'll vermin you! 
'Ill put my foot through your phrases. Get up, I say, 
get up and go — go! 

Job Arthur, It'll be you as '11 go, this time, 

Gerald. What? What?— By God! I'll kick you 
out of this park like a rotten bundle if you don't get up 
and go. 

Anabel. No, Gerald, no. Don 't forget yourself . It's 
enough now. It's enough now, — Come away. Do come 
away. Come away — leave him 

Job Arthur, (still on the ground). It's your turn to 
go. It's you as '11 go, this time, 

Gerald (looking at Mm). One can't even tread on 
you, 

Anabel. Don't, Gerald, don't — don't look at him, — 
Don't say any more, you, Job Arthur, — Come away, 
Gerald, Come away — come — do come, 

Gerald (turning). That a human being! My God! 
—But he 's right — it's I who go. It 's we who go, Anabel. 
He's still there. — My God! a human being! 

(Curtain.) 



TOUCH AND GO 89 



Scene II 

Market-place as in Act I. Willie Houghton, address- 
ing a large crowd of men from tJie foot of the obe- 
lisk. 

Willie. And now you're out on strike — now you've 
been out for a week pretty nearly, what further are 
you? I heard a great deal of talk about what you were 
going to do. Well, what are you going to do? You 
don't know. You 've not the smallest idea. You haven't 
any idea whatsoever. You've got your leaders. Now 
then. Job Arthur, throw a little light on the way in 
front, will you : for it seems to me we 're lost in a bog. 
Which way are we to steer ? Come — give the word, and 
let's gee-up. 

Job Arthur. You ask me which way we are to go. 
I say we can't go our own way, because of the obstacles 
that lie in front. You've got to remove the obstacles 
from the way. 

Willie. So said Balaam's ass. But you're not an 
ass — beg pardon; and you're not Balaam — you're Job. 
And we 've all got to be little Jobs, learning how to spell 
patience backwards. We've lost our jobs and we've 
found a Job. It's picking up a scorpion when you're 
looking for an egg. — Tell us what you propose doing. . . . 
Remove an obstacle from the way ! What obstacle ? And 
whose way? 

Job Arthur. I think it's pretty plain what the ob- 
stacle is. 

Willie. Oh, ay. Tell us their. 



90 TOUCH AND GO 

Job Arthur. The obstacle to Labour is Capital. 

Willie. And how are we going to put salt on Capi- 
tal's tail? 

Job Arthur. By Labour we mean us working men ; 
and by Capital we mean those that derive benefit from 
us, take the cream off us and leave us the skim. 

Willie. Oh, yes. 

Job Arthur. So that, if you're going to remove the 
obstacle, you've got to remove the masters, and all that 
belongs to them. Does everybody agree with me? 

Voices (loud). Ah, we do — yes — we do that — we do 
an' a' — yi — yi — that's it! 

Willie. Agreed unanimously. But how are we go- 
ing to do it? Do you propose to send for Williamson's 
furniture van, to pack them in? I should think one 
pantechnicon would do, just for this parish. I'll drive. 
Who '11 be the vanmen to lift and carry ? 

Job Arthur. It's no use fooling. You've fooled for 
thirty years, and we're no further. What's got to be 
done will have to be begun. It's for every man to 
sweep in front of his own doorstep. You can't call your 
neighbours dirty till you've washed your own face. 
Every parish has got its own vermin, and it's the busi- 
ness of every parish to get rid of its own. 

Voices. That 's it — that 's it — that 's the ticket — that 's 
the style ! 

Willie. And are you going to comb 'em out, or do 
you propose to use Keating 's? 

Voices. Shut it ! Shut it up ! Stop thy face ! Hold 
thy gab ! — Go on, Job Arthur. 

Job Arthur. How it's got to be done is for us all to 
decide. I'm not one for violence, except it's a force- 



TOUCH AND GO 91 

put. But it's like this. We've been travelling for years 
to where we stand now — and here the road stops. 
There's only room for one at a time on this path. 
There's a precipice below and a rock-face above. And 
in front of us stand the masters. Now there's three 
things we can do. We can either throw ourselves over 
the precipice; or we can lie down and let the masters 
walk over us ; or we can get on. 

Willie. Yes. That's all right. But how are you 
going to get on ? 

Job Arthur. Well — we've either got to throw the 
obstacle down the cliff — or walk over it. 

Voices. Ay — ay — ay — yes — that's a fact. 

Willie, I quite follow you, Job Arthur. You've 
either got to do for the masters — or else just remove 
them, and put them somewhere else. 

Voices. Get rid on 'em — drop 'em down the shaft — 
sink 'em — ha' done wi' 'em — drop 'em down the shaft 
— bust the beggars — what do you do wi' vermin? 

Willie. Supposing you begin. Supposing you take 
Gerald Barlow, and hang him up from this lamp-post, 
with a piece of coal in his mouth for a sacrament 

Voices. Ay — serve him right — serve the beggar 
right ! Shove it down 's throttle — ay ! 

Willie. Supposing you do it — supposing you 've done 
it — and supposing you aren't caught and punished — 
even supposing that — what are you going to do next? — 
that's the point. 

Job Arthur. We know what we're going to do. 
Once we can get our hands free, we know what we're 
going to do. 

Willie. Yes, so do I. You're either going to make 



92 TOUCH AND GO 

such a mess that we shall never get out of it — which I 
don't think you will do, for the English working man is 
the soul of obedience and order, and he 'd behave himself 
to-morrow as if he was at Sunday school, no matter what 
he does to-day. — No, what you'll do, Job Arthur, you'll 
set up another lot of masters, such a jolly sight worse 
than what we've got now. I'd rather be mastered by 
Gerald Barlow, if it comes to mastering, than by Job 
Arthur Freer — oh, such a lot! You'll be far less free 
with Job Arthur for your boss than ever you were with 
Gerald Barlow. You'll be far more degraded. — In fact, 
though I've preached socialism in the market-place for 
thirty years — if you 're going to start killing the masters 
to set yourselves up for bosses — why, kill me along with 
the masters. For I 'd rather die with somebody who has 
one tiny little spark of decency left — though it is a little 
tiny spark — than live to triumph with those that have 
none. 

Voices. Shut thy face, Houghton — shut it up — 
shut him up — hustle the beggar ! Hoi ! — hoi-ee ! — whoo ! 
— whoam-it, whoam-it ! — whoo ! — bow-wow ! — wet- whisk- 
ers ! 

Willie. And it's no use you making fools of your- 
selves (His words are heard through an ugly, jeer- 
ing, cold commotion.) 

Voice (loudly). He's comin'. 

Voices. Who ? 

Voice. Barlow. — See 's motor? — comin' up — sithee? 

Willie. If you 've any sense left (Suddenly and 

violently disappears. ) 

Voices. Sorry! — he's comin' — 's comin' — sorry, ah! 
Who's in? — That's Turton drivin' — yi, he's behind wi' 



TOUCH AND GO 93 

a woman — ah, he 's comin ' — he '11 none go back — hold on. 

Sorry! — wheer's 'e comin'? — up from Loddo — ay 

(The cries die down — the motor car slowly comes into 
sight, Oliver driving, Gerald and Anabel behind. The 
men stand in a mass in the way.) 

Oliver. Mind yourself, there, (Laughter.) 

Gerald. Go ahead, Oliver. 

Voice. What's yer 'urry? 

(Crowd sways and surges on the car. Oliver is sud- 
denly dragged out. Gerald stands up — he, too, is 
seized from behind — he wrestles — is torn out of his 
greatcoat — then falls — disappears. Loud cries — 
*'Hi! — hoi! — hoiee!" — all the while. The car 
shakes and presses uneasily.) 

Voice. Stop the blazin' motor, somebody. 

Voice. Here y' are! — hold a minute. (A man jumps 
in and stops the engine — he drops in the driver's seat.) 

Collier (outside the car). Step down, miss. 

Anabel. I am Mrs. Barlow. 

Collier. Missis, then. (Laugh.) Step down — ^lead 
'er forrard. Take 'em forrard — take 'em forrard. 

Job Arthur. Ay, make a road. 

Gerald. You're makin' a proper fool of yourself 
now. Freer, 

Job Arthur, You've brought it on yourself. Tou*ve 
made fools of plenty of men. 

Colliers. Come on, now — come on! "Whoa! — whoa! 
— he's a jibber — go pretty now, go pretty! 

Voices (suddenly). Lay hold o' Houghton — nab 'im 
— seize 'im — rats! — rats! — ^bring 'im forrard! 



94 TOUCH AND GO 

Anabel (in a loud, clear voice). I never knew any- 
thing so ridiculous, 

YoiCES (falsetto). Ridiculous! Oh, ridiculous ! Mind 
the step, dear! — I'm Mrs. Barlow! — Oh, are you? — 
Tweet — tweet ! 

Job Arthur. Make a space, boys, make a space. 
(He stands witJi prisoners in a cleared space before tlie 
obelisk.) Now — now — quiet a minute — we want to ask 
a few questions of these gentlemen. 

Voices. Quiet ! — quiet ! — Sh-h-h ! Sh-h-h ! — Answer 
pretty — answer pretty now ! — Quiet ! — Shh-h-h ! 

Job Arthur. We want to ask you, Mr. Gerald Bar- 
low, why you have given occasion for this present 
trouble. 

Gerald. You are a fool. 

Voices. Oh! — oh! — naughty Barlow! — naughty baa- 
lamb — answer pretty — answer pretty — be good baa- 
lamb — baa — baa! — answer pretty when gentleman asks 
you. 

Job Arthur. Quiet a bit. Sh-h-h! — We put this 
plain question to you, Mr. Barlow. Why did you refuse 
to give the clerks this just and fair advance, when you 
knew that by refusing you would throw three thousand 
men out of employment ? 

Gerald. You are a fool, I say. 

Voices. Oh! — oh! — won't do — won't do. Barlow — 
wrong answer — wrong answer — be good baa-lamb — 
naughty boy — naughty boy ! 

Job Arthur. Quiet a bit — now! — If three thousand 
men ask you a just, straightforward question, do you 
consider they've no right to an answer? 

Gerald. I would answer you with my foot. 



TOUCH AND GO 95 

Voices (amid a tJireatening scuffle). Da-di-da! Hark 
ye — hark ye! Oh — whoa — whoa a bit! — won't do! — 
won't do! — naughty — naughty — say you're sorry — say 
you 're sorry — kneel and say you 're sorry — kneel and beg 
pardon ! 

Job Arthur. Hold on a bit — keep clear ! 

Voices. Make him kneel — make him kneel — on his 
knees with him ! 

Job Arthur. I think you'd better kneel down, 

(The crowd press on Gerald — Tie struggles — they hit him 
behind the knees, force him down.) 

Oliver. This is shameful and unnecessary. 
Voices. All of 'em — on your knees — all of 'em — on 
their knees ! 

(They seize Oliver and Willie and Anabel, hustling. 
Anabel kneels quietly — the others struggle.) 

Willie. Well, of all the damned, dirty, cowardly 

Voices. Shut up, Houghton — shut him up — squeeze 
him! 

Oliver. Get off me — let me alone — I '11 kneel. 

Voices. Good little doggies — nice doggies — kneel and 
beg pardon — yap-yap — answer — make him answer! 

Job Arthur (holding up his hand for silence). It 
would be better if you answered straight off, Barlow. 
We want to know why you prevented that advance. 

Voices (after a pause). Nip his neck! Make him 
yelp! 

Oliver. Let me answer, then. — ^Because it's worse, 



96 TOUCH AND GO 

perhaps, to be bullied by three thousand men than by 
one man. 

Voices. Oh! — oh! — dog keeps barking — stuff his 
mouth — stop him up — here's a bit of paper — answer, 
Barlow — nip his neck — stuff his mug — make him yelp — 
cork the bottle ! 

(TJiey press a lump of newspaper into Oliver's mouth, 
and hear down on Gerald, j 

Job Arthur. Quiet — quiet — quiet a minute, every- 
body. We give him a minute — we give him a minute to 
answer. 

Voices. Give him a minute — a holy minute — say your 
prayers. Barlow — you've got a minute — tick-tick, says 
the clock — time him ! 

Job Arthur. Keep quiet. 

Willie. Of all the damned, cowardly 

Voices. Sh-h-h! — Squeeze him — throttle him! Si- 
lence is golden, Houghton. — Close the shutters, Willie's 
dead. — Dry up, wet whiskers ! 

Job Arthur. You've fifteen seconds. 

Voices. There's a long, long trail a-winding 

Job Arthur. The minute's up. — ^We ask you again, 
Gerald Barlow, why you refused a just and fair demand, 
when you know it was against the wishes of three thou- 
sand men all as good as yourseli. 

Voices. And a sight better — I don't think — we're not 
all vermin — we 're not all crawlers, living off the sweat of 
other folks — we 're not all parish vermin — parish vermin. 

Job Arthur. And on what grounds do you think you 



TOUCH AND GO 97 

have no occasion to answer the straightforward question 
we put you here ? 

An ABEL (after a pause). Answer them, Gerald. 
What's the use of prolonging this? 

Gerald. I've nothing to answer. 

Voices. Nothing to answer — Gerald, darling — Ger- 
ald, duckie — oh, lovey-dovey — I've nothing to answer — 
no, by God — no, by God, he hasna — nowt to answer — 
ma 'e him find summat, then — answer for him — gi 'e him 's 
answer — let him ha'e it — go on — mum — mum — lovey- 
dovey — rub his nose in it — kiss the dfrt, ducky — bend 
him down — rub his nose in — he's saying something — oh, 
no, he isn't — sorry I spoke — bend him down! 

Job Arthur. Quiet a bit — quiet everybody — he's got 

to answer — keep quiet. — Now (A silence.) Now 

then. Barlow, will you answer, or won't you? (Silence.) 

Anabel. Answer them, Gerald — never mind. 

Voices. Sh-h-h! Sh-h-h! (Silence.) 

Job Arthur. You won't answer, Barlow? 

Voice. Down the beggar ! 

Voices. Down him — put his nose down — flatten him ! 

(The crowd surges and begins to Jioivl — tJiey sway dan- 
gerously — Gerald is spread-eagled on tJie floor, face 
down.) 

Job Arthur. Back — ^back — back a minute — back — 
back! (TJiey recoil.) 
Willie. I hope there's a God in heaven. 
Voices. Put him down — flatten him ! 

C Willie is flattened on the ground.) 



98 TOUCH AND GO 

Job Arthur. Now then — now then — if you won't 
answer, Barlow, I can't stand here for you any more. — 
Take your feet off him, boys, and turn him over. Turn 
him over — ^let us look at him. Let us see if he can 
speak. (TJiey turn Mm over, witJi another scuffle.) Now 
then, Barlow — you can see the sky above you. Now do 
you think you 're going to play with three thousand men, 
with their lives and with their souls? — now do you think 
you 're going to answer them with your foot ? — do you — 
do you ? 

(TTie crowd has begun to sway and heave dangerously, 
with a low, muffled roar, above which is heard Job 
Arthur's voice. As he ceases, the roar breaks into 
a yell — the crowd heaves.) 

Voices. Down him — crack the vermin — on top of him 
— put your foot on the vermin ! 

Anabel (with a loud, piercing cry, suddenly starting 
up). Ah, no! Ah, no! Ah-h-h-h no-o-o-o! Ah-h-h-h 
no-o-o-o ! Ah-h-h-h no-o-o-o ! No-o-o-o ! No-o-o-o ! No-o ! 
No-o-o! — Ah-h-h-h! — it's enough, it's enough, it's 
enough — he 's a man as you are. He 's a man as you are. 
He 's a man as you are. He 's a man as you are. (Weeps 
— a breath of silence.) 

Oliver. Let us stop now — let us stop now. Let me 
stand up. (Silence.) I want to stand up. (A muffled 
noise.) 

Voice. Let him get up. ('Oliver rises. ) 

Oliver. Be quiet. Be quiet. — Now — choose ! Choose I 
Choose! Choose what you will do! Only choose! 
Choose! — it will be irrevocable. (A moment's pause.) 



TOUCH AND GO 99 

Thank God we haven't gone too far. — Gerald, get up, 
(Men still hold Mm down.) 

Job Arthur. Isn't he to answer ns? Isn't he going 
to answer us ? 

Oliver. Yes, he shall answer you. He shall answer 
you. But let him stand up. No more of this. Let him 
stand up. He must stand up. (Men still Jiold Gerald 
down.) Oliver takes hold of their hands and removes 
them.) Let go — let go now. Yes, let go — yes — I ask you 
to let go. (Slowly, sullenly, the men let go. Gerald is 
free, hut he does not move.) There — get up, Gerald! 
Get up! You aren't hurt, are you? You must get up 
— it's no use. We're doing our best — you must do 
yours. When things are like this, we have to put up 
with what we get. (^Gerald rises slowly and faces the 
moh. They roar dully.) You ask why the clerks didn't 
get this increase ? Wait ! Wait ! Do you still wish for 
any answer, Mr. Freer? 

Job Arthur. Yes, that's what we've been waiting 
for. 

Oliver. Then answer, Gerald. 

Gerald. They 've trodden on my face. 

Oliver. No matter. Job Arthur will easily answer 
that you 've trodden on their souls. Don 't start an alter- 
cation. (The crowd is beginning to roar.) 

Gerald. You want to know why the clerks didn't 
get their rise? — Because you interfered and attempted 
to bully about it, do you see. That 's why. 

Voices. You want bullying. — You '11 get bullying, you 
will. 

Oliver. Can 't you see it 's no good, either side ? It 's 
no mortal use. We might as well all die to-morrow, or 



100 TOUCH AND GO 

to-day, or this minute, as go on bullying one another, 
one side bullying the other side, and the other side bul- 
lying back. We'd better all die. 

"Willie. And a great deal better. I 'm damned if 1 11 
take sides with anybody against anything, after this. If 
I'm to die, I'll die by myself. As for living, it seems 
impossible. 

Job Arthur. Have the men nothing to be said for 
their side ? 

Oliver. They have a great deal — but not everything, 
you see. 

Job Arthur. Haven't they been wronged? And 
aren't they wronged? 

Oliver. They have — and they are. But haven 't they 
been wrong themselves, too? — and aren't they wrong 
now? 

Job Arthur. How? 

Oliver. What about this affair? Do you call it 
right? 

Job Arthur. Haven't we been driven to it? 

Oliver. Partly. And haven 't you driven the masters 
to it, as well ? 

Job Arthur. I don't see that. 

Oliver. Can't you see that it takes two to make a 
quarrel? And as long as each party hangs on to its 
own end of the stick and struggles to get full hold of 
the stick, the quarrel will continue. It will continue till 
you've killed one another. And even then, what better 
shall you be ? What better would you be, really, if you 'd 
killed Gerald Barlow just now? You wouldn't, you 
know. We're all human beings, after all. And why 



TOUCH AND GO 101 

can't we try really to leave off struggling against one 
another, and setup a new state of things'? 

Job Arthur. That's all very well, you see, while 
you've got the goods. 

Oliver. I've got very little, I assure you. 

Job Arthur. Well, if you haven't, those you mix 
with have. They've got the money, and the power, and 
they intend to keep it. 

Oliver. As for power, somebody must have it, you 
know. It only rests with you to put it into the hands 
of the best men, the men you really believe in. — And as 
for money, it's life, it's living that matters, not simply 
having money. 

Job Arthur. You can't live without money. 

Oliver. I know that. And therefore why can't we 
have the decency to agree simply about money — just 
agree to dispose of it so that all men could live their 
own lives. 

Job Arthur. That's what we want to do. But the 
others, such as Gerald Barlow, they keep the money — 
and the power. 

Oliver. You see, if you wanted to arrange things 
so that money flowed more naturally, so that it flowed 
naturally to every man, according to his needs, I think 
we could all soon agree. But you don't. What you 
want is to take it away from one set and give it to an- 
other — or keep it yourselves. 

Job Arthur. We want every man to have his proper 
share. 

Oliver. I'm sure / do. I want every man to be 
able to live and be free. But we shall never manage 
it by fighting over the money. If you want what is 



102 TOUCH AND GO 

natural and good, I 'm sure the owners would soon agree 
with you. 

Job Arthur. What? Gerald Barlow agree with us? 

Oliver. Why not ? I believe so. 

Job Arthur. You ask him. 

Oliver. Do you think, Gerald, that if the men really 
wanted a whole, better way, you would agree with them? 

Gerald. I want a betfer way myself — ^but not their 
way. 

Job Arthur. There, you see! 

Voices. Ah-h ! look you ! — That's him — that's him all 
over. 

Oliver. You want a better way, — but not his way: 
he wants a better way — but not your way. Why can't 
you both drop your buts, and simply say you want a 
better way, and believe yourselves and one another when 
you say it ? Why can 't you ? 

Gerald. Look here! I'm quite as tired of my way 
of life as you are of yours. If you make me believe you 
want something better, then I assure you I do: I want 
what you want. But Job Arthur Freer 's not the man 
to lead you to anything better. You can tell what peo- 
ple want by the leaders they choose, do you see? You 
choose leaders whom I respect, and I'll respect you, do 
you see? As it is, I don't. And now I'm going. 

Voices. Who says? — Oh ay! — Who says goin'? 

Gerald. Yes, I 'm going. About this affair here we '11 
cry quits ; no more said about it. About a new way of 
life, a better way all round — I tell you I want it and 
need it as much as ever you do. I don't care about 
money really. But I'm never going to be bullied. 

Voice. Who doesn 't care about money ? 



TOUCH AND GO 103 

Gerald. I don't. I think we ought to be able to 
alter the whole system — ^but not by bullying, not because 
one lot wants what the other has got. 

Voice. No, because you've got everything. 

Gerald. Where's my coat? Now then, step out of 
the way. (They move towards the car.) 

(Curtain.) 



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